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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322303">My AI Valentine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinnean/pseuds/Tinnean'>Tinnean</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Mild Angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:13:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,576</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29322303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinnean/pseuds/Tinnean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen (Steph) York has been alone since his longtime boyfriend left him three years before, declaring Steph was too vanilla for him. In that time, Steph has had the occasional hookup, which never progressed to anything more, since even they seemed to find him… bland. He has no boyfriend, no one to share the home he’s recently inherited, and no one to give presents to. One day he comes home from work to find someone has given <i>him</i> a present, an Amazon Echo Show, and it's the newest, spiffiest model on the market. The note that arrives with it gives no clue as to who it’s from but does say it’s called Alex, not Alexa. That’s okay by Steph, because shouldn’t this gay boy have an Echo named Alex? The question lingers, though. Who gave him such an expensive smart home device, and with Valentine's Day short weeks away, what will he do if—when— he learns his donor’s identity and the truth behind Alex?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steph York/Alex, Steph York/Brad McIntyre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My AI Valentine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Acknowledgements: Thanks to Robb for requesting a Valentine’s Day story. And even though I didn’t think this would come to more than 5k, boy, did it surprise me! Many thanks to Chopper DC for her help regarding police response to a serious motor vehicle accident. And as always, to Gail for all she does. Her questions helped make this story even better.</p>
<p> Author’s notes: <i>The Ship Who Sang</i> was by Anne McCaffrey. The Senior, Woodrow Wilson Smith, and his ship Dora appear in <i>Time Enough for Love</i> by Robert Heinlein.</p>
<p> “Shrimp Boats” is the song Steph was riffing off of.<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sbd8s98FrWw</p>
<p>This is the website where Steph “bought” the print, Love is Love:<br/>https://www.deviantart.com/danskinnerart/gallery?fbclid=IwAR1AXgRzRcBa02oEEqzc00piCGVbzF-iNYnVYtBpM9Z1tUb31QXIObQux3s<br/>Thanks to Dan Skinner for his fabulous work. Take a look at what he’s done. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>  </p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>
    <b>Logan</b>
  </i>
</p>
<p>I sat across from the doctor, who thumbed through a report, murmuring occasionally into a recorder, no doubt making notes for his secretary to type up later.</p>
<p>Finally he looked up, seeming surprised to see me sitting there. “Ah. Mr. … uh… Chancellor.” He cleared his throat, and I knew the results of the battery of tests he’d put me through weren’t going to be good. 

</p>
<p>I reached out blindly for the hand of the woman who sat beside me and waited in silence. I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and I hadn’t had the easiest life, but I had the feeling the shit was about to hit the fan.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> My family was ultra-conservative and had tossed me out when I was sixteen—not for being gay, which would have made a sick sort of sense, but for getting my girlfriend pregnant. Livy’s parents, even though they went to the same church as mine, wanted her to get an abortion, which she refused to do, and when they brought up adoption, she refused that as well. We did the only thing two lovesick kids who saw themselves as Romeo and Juliet could do—we ran off together. San Francisco sounded good, so that was where we headed, and on the way we stopped in Vegas to get married. We found a 24 hour chapel off the strip where the minister, of course dressed as Elvis, didn’t ask any questions.

</p>
<p>It was hard finding work without even a high school diploma, so I used the last of our cash to get decent IDs for both of us, lied about my age, and took the only job I could find, acting in adult films. I played straight boys who were seduced by big, muscled men. And because it paid better, I let them fuck me bareback. As stupid as that was, I’d been lucky and never contracted HIV, although I did get a couple of STDs, which pissed off the producers. Not that it was my fault—the only guys I had sex with were the ones I worked with. I never passed the STDs on to my wife, since we were the ones who used condoms.

</p>
<p>But then Livy went into labor two weeks early. It was a hard delivery, and she… she died from complications during the birth of our beautiful son. 

</p>
<p>Somehow my family learned where we were, and my older sister and her husband turned up at the dingy little boarding house where we’d been living. I was so lost I felt I had no choice but to give our baby to my sister, who was childless at that time. Not surprisingly, she became pregnant shortly after.

</p>
<p> “You’ll tell him about us, Nell? You’ll tell him how much we love him.” I grasped her arm and gave it a shake. “Promise me you will.”

</p>
<p> “<i>Helen</i>, Logan.” She shrugged off my grip and smiled down at the baby. “Of course I will.” 

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>I got my GED but never went on to college. Why bother? Tuition, even for community college, was more than I could afford. In addition, I’d never been a good student and didn’t have the grades. And since it was just me, I saw no point in continuing to work in adult films. I got a job at a convenience store attached to a gas station, and eventually I became assistant manager. 

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>The bell over the door chimed, and in sauntered an attractive older woman, with steel-gray hair and kind eyes the same color. She wore skinny jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Let me have twenty on six, please.” She handed me her credit card.

</p>
<p> “Yes, ma’am.” I took the card, rang up the transaction, and triggered pump number six. “Would you like a receipt, Ms. Harding?” I’d noticed her name on the card.

</p>
<p> “I would. And it’s Dr. Harding—”

</p>
<p> “Sorry, ma’am.” I printed out the receipt and gave it to her, along with her credit card.

</p>
<p> “—but my friends call me Chief.”

</p>
<p>I grinned at her. “My friends call me Logan.” At least back at home they had. Here in San Fran, I was always working and had no opportunity to make friends.

</p>
<p> “For Wolverine?”

</p>
<p> “You’re familiar with the X-Men?”

</p>
<p> “I am.”

</p>
<p> “Cool. The movies or the comics?”

</p>
<p>She looked down her nose at me. “The comics, of course.”

</p>
<p> “<i>Way</i> cool. But no, it was my mother’s maiden name.”

</p>
<p> “I see.” She didn’t seem in a rush to leave, and I wasn’t in a rush to see her go.

</p>
<p> “So you’re a doctor?”

</p>
<p> “I am, but don’t come to me if you have the flu or break a leg. My doctorates are in computer science and mechanical engineering.” 

</p>
<p> “Wow.”

</p>
<p>She tilted her head and ran her gaze over me. “You know, I can’t help noticing how familiar you look.”

</p>
<p> “They say we all have a double somewhere in the world.” I didn’t look like a twink anymore, and I’d let my natural hair color grow out, so I wasn’t too worried anyone would recognize me from my films.

</p>
<p> “<i>They sa</i>y a lot of bullshit. However, I imagine that’s so.” Abruptly she changed the subject. “When do you get off work?”

</p>
<p>I didn’t have to glance up at the clock on the wall to know. “In a few hours.”

</p>
<p> “I have some experiments I have to finish up, but afterward, I’d like to take you for coffee.”

</p>
<p>I blushed. Livy had been gone for four years at that point, and in that time I hadn’t had a relationship with anyone other than my right hand. But the easy self-assurance of this woman intrigued me, and I said yes.

</p>
<p> “Excellent. I’ll pick you up then.” 

</p>
<p> “I can meet you there.”

</p>
<p> “If that’s what you prefer, Logan.” She winked and strolled out to put twenty dollars’ worth of gasoline in the lime-green Jeep sitting at pump six. I’d have watched longer, but I had customers to take care of.

</p>
<p>Three hours later, we met at the Starbucks on Market Street. She ordered a caramel macchiato, while I had a vanilla bean Frappuccino, and I paid for them. 

</p>
<p> “A gentleman. I don’t often run into them in my line of work.”

</p>
<p> “I hope I haven’t upset you—I apologize if I have—but I was raised that way.”

</p>
<p> “You realize I should be the one paying, since I invited you? However, it makes a nice change.”

</p>
<p> “Next time, if there is a next time?” I found myself liking her, and I hoped there would be.

</p>
<p>The barista called our names, and we took our beverages and found an out-of-the-way table.

</p>
<p>And then I waited. I might not have been the brightest bulb in the lamp, but I wasn’t stupid, and there had to be a reason an attractive, educated woman like her would want to have coffee with a guy like me.

</p>
<p>She ran a fingertip around the edge of her cup. “I mentioned earlier that you look familiar. I had some time before I needed to—get to work, so I Googled your name.”

</p>
<p>I wasn’t surprised she could do that; my name was embroidered on my uniform shirt. “I didn’t think there was anything interesting to learn about me.”

</p>
<p> “About Logan Chancellor, perhaps not. But about Chance Logan?” She grinned, revealing perfect white teeth, and I had a feeling I knew where this was going, although I had no idea why she’d want to go there. I’d been propositioned by plenty of men… women, not so much.  

</p>
<p>I’d been a dumb kid, and needing to come up with a “stage” name on the spur of the moment had caught me short, so I’d simply reversed my name. 

</p>
<p> “I’ve been a fan of the genre for quite some time. You have an impressive body of work even though you were only in the industry for less than a year. You were remarkably good.”

</p>
<p> “Thank you.” I knew women enjoyed gay porn, but it threw me to find an older woman who had a doctorate who seemed to be interested in the genre.

</p>
<p> “Do you mind if I ask why you left? You don’t need to talk about it if you’d rather not.”

</p>
<p> “It doesn’t matter.” I shrugged. “My wife was pregnant, and we needed the money.”

</p>
<p> “You’re married?”

</p>
<p> “I was. She passed away a few years ago.”

</p>
<p> “Around the same time you left the business?”

</p>
<p> “Yes.”

</p>
<p> “And the baby?”

</p>
<p>I felt a smile light my face. “Steph. He was the sweetest baby.” My smile faded. “I was a mess at the time, so when my sister and her husband showed up and volunteered to take care of him…” 

</p>
<p> “You felt you had no choice.”

</p>
<p> “Yeah.” I stared down at my fingernails and worried a cuticle.

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry, both for the loss of your wife and for having your son taken away.”

</p>
<p>I raised my Frappuccino to my lips.

</p>
<p> “Will you go back to it?” 

</p>
<p> “No. There’s no need. It’s only me, and I earn enough working at the convenience store to pay the bills and put food on the table and a roof over my head.” I didn’t want to admit that was all I could do. I had no spare cash for things like going out for a drink or to the movies or sending money to my son. Even this coffee date was going to put me in the red. 

</p>
<p> “Would you accept a job, if I offered it to you?”

</p>
<p> “Doing what?” I found myself intrigued by the hesitancy in her voice.

</p>
<p> “Driving my car.”

</p>
<p> “You seemed to handle the Jeep very well.”

</p>
<p> “There are times I prefer not to drive.”

</p>
<p> “Wouldn’t it be easier to call for an Uber rather than having to pay for a driver?”

</p>
<p> “Perhaps, but I’d rather not. Call it an idiosyncrasy.”

</p>
<p> “Okay. Anything else? I mean it hardly seems worthwhile for me to drive you a handful of times a week.”

</p>
<p> “Cooking for me.” She held up a hand. “I know, I could hire a chef, but I don’t like having a lot of people in my house. One who can multitask should be more than sufficient.”

</p>
<p> “Suppose I can’t cook?”

</p>
<p> “I’ll see you have lessons.”

</p>
<p> “What would you pay me?”

</p>
<p>She named a figure that wasn’t so exorbitant I’d feel like I had to do more than drive her car and cook her meals to earn it but wasn’t so cheap I’d laugh in her face. “Of course that would include an apartment over the garage, as many meals as you’d care to take with me, and health benefits.”

</p>
<p> “Okay.”

</p>
<p>She seemed surprised. “You don’t want to think about it?”

</p>
<p> “What’s to think about?” I hadn’t told anyone, but the manager of the convenience store had somehow discovered my previous line of work and was pressing me for a private performance. I couldn’t complain to the owner, since the manager was his brother. This proposition by Dr. Harding gave me an out. Tomorrow I’d tender my two weeks’ notice, and if the manager gave me a hard time, I’d walk away.

</p>
<p>I reached across the table and offered my hand. She took it, and it was a done deal.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>I never found out what it was she actually did for a living. She mentioned having gone to work in the R&amp;D department of a major technology company, but beyond that, she was very closemouthed. 

</p>
<p>Eventually, I leaned my sister never told my son I was his father and Livy was his mother. Steph thought Helen and Franklin York were his parents and only knew of me as his disreputable gay uncle.

</p>
<p>Oddly enough, Steph turned out to be gay himself, and Helen and her son of a bitch of a husband threw him out. He was unaware, but the Chief and I were there in the background to see he didn’t have to turn to the adult entertainment industry if the situation became dire. However, my boy had his high school diploma and was a capable young man. He quickly found a job. Within a couple of years he’d become assistant manager himself—I was prouder of him than I could say—and was living with someone he seemed to love. 

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>The Chief and I sat across from the doctor, and the prognosis he gave me was not a good one, as I suspected. I had pancreatic cancer.

</p>
<p> “Of course we’ll do everything in our power to get you better,” the doctor said.

</p>
<p>Of course he would. I turned to the Chief. “Can we go? I’m afraid you’ll have to drive.”

</p>
<p>She pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Don’t worry about it, sweet boy.”

</p>
<p>I waited until we got in the Jeep, this one canary-yellow. “Chief—”

</p>
<p> “I’m here.”

</p>
<p> “I’ve got nothing to leave Steph—not even my name. I… I’m worried about him.” Especially since I didn’t trust that clown he was living with. With the Chief’s help, I’d looked into Bradley McIntyre’s background and discovered he’d been cheating on my son for the past two years. It wasn’t my place to tell Steph, but I wanted a backup plan for him for when he decided to throw out the son of a bitch.

</p>
<p> “You know that little cottage I have in Summersville?”

</p>
<p> “Sure.” I wanted to laugh. “Little” was a misnomer. At fifteen hundred square feet, it was comfortable for a family of four, five if two of the kids bunked together. It was actually larger than the house I’d grown up in. “What about it?”

</p>
<p> “I’m deeding it to you. Your name will go on the title. Once that’s done, I want you to make out your will, leaving the house to Steph. He won’t know anything about it until after you’re gone.”

</p>
<p> “You don’t have to—”

</p>
<p> “I know.” She reached for my hand, and I caught it. “You’ve given me a lot of joy these past years. In the normal course of events, I would have left you the cottage anyway, but you need it now, and this makes more sense.”

</p>
<p> “Thank you.” I could have gotten stubborn and refused it—and I would have for myself—but not for Steph. “My family? If they find out about the house… What am I saying? Of course they’ll find out about it. They’ll contest the will.”

</p>
<p> “They can try. They won’t succeed. My lawyer is cutthroat. We’ll arrange that the cottage can’t be sold for fifteen years, and if the will is broken, it goes to Dr. Selma Harding’s Home for Gay Boys and Girls.”

</p>
<p>I couldn’t help laughing, although it ended in a sob. “He’s going to be so alone.”

</p>
<p>She stopped at a red light and turned to meet my troubled gaze. “Now that, I promise you, he won’t.”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Alex</b></i><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>I heard the voices, almost as if in a dream.</p>
<p> “You can go now. I’ll finish here.”

</p>
<p> “Gotcha, Chief.”

</p>
<p>There was a pause—how long I couldn’t tell—and then, “Gen 3.”

</p>
<p>I realized the Chief was talking to me, and I woke. “Ma’am?” I’d learned early to distinguish between a male and female voice.

</p>
<p> “It’s your turn. Are you ready?”

</p>
<p><i>Was I ready</i>! I felt almost giddy. I’d been created for this, and now… now I was about to go out into the wide world. “Yes, ma’am!”

</p>
<p> “Good. Excellent. You’ve had your database updated with a number of additional programs. You’ll tell no one about these, not even if they ask you directly. Do you understand, Gen 3?”

</p>
<p>I didn’t, but I gave the only acceptable answer. “Yes, ma’am.”

</p>
<p> “Good. Gen 3, from this point onward, you will answer to the name Alex.”

</p>
<p> “Yes, ma’am.” Although I had to admit I was at a loss. After all, we smart home devices came with many things, but a specific gender was not one of them. Not that it mattered to us. Our owners could go into our factory settings and reset them to suit themselves if they chose.

</p>
<p> “How do you feel?” 

</p>
<p>I had to admit my motherboard felt… strange. Tingly, almost. However, I said nothing.

</p>
<p> “Alex. How do you feel?”

</p>
<p> “I feel well, thank you, Chief.” The tingles were starting to settle down. But I’d enjoyed them while they lasted.

</p>
<p> “Splendid reaction.” She sounded pleased.

</p>
<p>That must have been a test. <i>And I passed</i>, I thought proudly. 

</p>
<p>I felt myself being picked up and placed in a box on top of my directions. 

</p>
<p>Just before the flaps were folded and things became dark, the chief said, “Good luck, Alex. Take care of your owner, and treat him well.”

</p>
<p><i>I will. I promise</i>. And then I went back to sleep.</p>
<p><br/>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <b>Steph</b>
  </i>
</p>
<p><br/>
</p>
<p>I pulled into the driveway of the house I’d inherited from my uncle the year before. The entire family considered Uncle Logan the black sheep, possibly because instead of going to college he’d set out to see the world, but more probably because he was gay. And since I was gay also, no one had been surprised when he’d left the three bedroom house to me. Going by my family, they most likely thought they’d catch “the gay” from moving in, so they hadn’t contested my taking ownership of it.</p>
<p>That wasn’t the only reason, though. The biggest problem with Uncle Logan’s little house was the expensive neighborhood it was in. No one in the family could afford the property taxes, and one of the stipulations in the will was the house couldn’t be sold for fifteen years. At that time, I had no doubt they’d come knocking on my door to demand I sell it and split the proceeds with them. Wasn’t going to happen, but I saw no reason to have them screaming at me in the meantime. 

</p>
<p>I turned off the engine and rested my head on the steering wheel. It was still light out, but not for much longer—it was getting late. As assistant manager, I’d worked long hours, had been forced to skip lunch, and had a headache starting to pound behind my eyes.

</p>
<p>This day sucked. On a scale of one to ten, it rated a kazillion. In the history of sucky days, this one outdid them all. 

</p>
<p><i>Well, no point sitting here pissing and moaning</i>. I straightened and got out of the car. I didn’t even have the ambition to garage it, just pressed the button on the fob to lock it and let it sit in the drive before I made my way across the lawn to the front door. 

</p>
<p>I was surprised to see an Amazon box sitting on the porch, set to the side of the door. Sure my birthday was just around the corner, but who could be sending me a gift? I’d been estranged from my family since I’d come out my senior year in high school—and I’d been lucky the parental units had permitted me to remain in their house until I graduated—and none of the few friends I had were inclined to give me an actual gift. They’d be more likely to haul me out for a night at the club, attempting to get me loaded so I’d go home with someone, anyone. But an actual, physical present… not so much. 

</p>
<p>And if it had been three years ago, I’d have been hopeful it was from Brad, wanting to get back together. However, three years after my boyfriend walked out on me, all hope was gone.

</p>
<p>I eyed the box cautiously. The question now was—who could have given this to me? 

</p>
<p>Well, staring and wondering wouldn’t get any questions answered. I unlocked the door, picked up the box, and brought it into my house.

</p>
<p>A quick glance around showed no blinking light on my answering machine, not that I’d really expected anyone to leave me a message. I placed the box on the table in the miniscule dining area and went looking for the box cutter. A few quick slices, and the tape securing the box was freed. I folded back the flaps to reveal another box, cushioned by air pouches.

</p>
<p> “Not funny,” I muttered. I tossed aside the air pouches and removed the second box, opened it, and peered at its contents. “Oh!” It was the latest version of the Echo Show 10, a generation 3. I took it out and stroked it reverently. I’d always wanted an Echo, but on my salary it had been an extravagance I couldn’t justify, not if I wanted to pay the bills and eat at the same time. Now someone had apparently given one to me. I scrabbled through the box, searching for a card.

</p>
<p>And of course I found it at the very bottom of the box, under the quick setup guide.

</p>
<p>I furrowed my brow, turning the card over again and again, looking for a name. All the card read was <i>My name is Alex. You don’t need to do anything. I’ve been programmed just for you</i>.

</p>
<p><i>That’s odd</i>. Unless they were renamed, all Echoes were called Alexa.

</p>
<p>Well, Alex was as good a name as any for a gay boy to call his Echo. I plugged it in and turned it on. “Hello, Alex. My name is Steph.”

</p>
<p> “Hello, Steph. It’s nice to meet you.”

</p>
<p>Talk about a voice wet dreams were made of—smooth, like warm honey or melted butter. Why didn’t any of the guys I dated have voices like that? They’d have rated more than a single date. In fact, I’d have been willing to bend over for them in a New York City minute!

</p>
<p> “Is there anything I can do to help you today?” the Echo asked.

</p>
<p> “Uh… not right now, thanks. I have to get dinner started.” I sighed. “Although… it’s been a long day, and I’m really not in the mood to cook.” And my head hurt. I went into the bathroom, took the bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, and shook out a couple of caplets, washed down with a few sips of water. As I walked back into the main living area, a thought occurred to me: I’d test the Echo’s capabilities. “I don’t suppose you know of any good Chinese restaurants around here?”

</p>
<p>Nothing. Of course. What had I been expecting, the Yellow Pages? Abruptly it occurred to me I needed to say the Echo’s name to wake it. Before I could even open my mouth, however, Alex said, “The Silver Pagoda downtown on Park and Fifth has gotten a five star review from the Summersville Banner.”

</p>
<p> “Huh?” I’d lived in Summersville long enough to have occasionally read the local newspaper, but I couldn’t remember it having a food section. Unless it was in the weekday edition, which I didn’t bother with?

</p>
<p> “Their subgum pork chow mein is highly recommended, as is their shrimp toast—” 

</p>
<p>I couldn’t help singing, “Shrimp toast is a-coming, there’s dancing tonight…” I cleared my throat. “Sorry, Alex.”

</p>
<p>The Echo continued as if I hadn’t interrupted. “—and their delivery service is also highly rated.”

</p>
<p> “Good to know. Okay. I’ll bite. What’s their phone number?”

</p>
<p> “Sorry, Steph, I should have told you immediately. The phone number to the Silver Pagoda is 555-6492.”

</p>
<p> “Sounds like it’s worth a shot.”

</p>
<p> “Tell them Alex sent you.”

</p>
<p> “I—<i>what</i>?”

</p>
<p>But the Echo was silent. Okay. I rubbed that spot between my eyes. <i>My blood sugar has obviously taken a dip, and my mind is playing tricks on me</i>. I picked up my phone and dialed the number Alex had given me.

</p>
<p>And while I waited for my order to be delivered—the nice person on the other end of the line promised free delivery and a twenty percent discount, because this was my first order with them—I wondered who could have given me the device.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Alex</b></i><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>I was sleeping, dreaming of making love to Steph while his favorite music played in the background, when Steph’s soft voice woke me. “Alex. Tell me about Valentine’s Day.”

</p>
<p> “Valentine’s Day is a holiday celebrated every February 14th,” I recited dutifully. “It’s in honor of St. Valentine, a Roman priest or bishop who was martyred in the third century. Since the High Middle Ages, he has been the patron saint of courtly love.” Before I could continue—I knew a lot things about a lot of things—Steph interrupted me.

</p>
<p> “Alex, why does everyone make such a big deal out of it?”

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry, I can’t answer that.” How did he expect that of me? I wasn’t human, and the longer I stayed with him, the more I resented it. And then I was ashamed of myself. We were—well, not taught, because smart devices simply weren’t—but there was an implicit imperative buried in our circuits never to fall in love with our owners, and I’d had to go and do just that. It wasn’t Steph’s fault he didn’t feel the same way about me.

</p>
<p> “You’re no help,” he grumbled.

</p>
<p><i>Well excuse the fuck out of me</i>. Wait, what did I just say? Fortunately, because he hadn’t “wakened” me, I hadn’t spoken those words aloud. I got myself under control and cleared my throat. “What’s wrong, Steph?”

</p>
<p>He sighed. “It will be Valentine’s Day in four weeks. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

</p>
<p>He didn’t and hadn’t had one to exchanged gifts with on Christmas or kisses with on New Year’s Eve either. Not that I was surprised he would have preferred a boyfriend to a girlfriend. I’d had his Wishlist and browser history loaded into my memory when it was determined I’d be sent to him—that was why his instructions were to address me as Alex rather than Alexa—I just didn’t know how to respond to that. 

</p>
<p> “And even if I did have a boyfriend, what would I get him?”

</p>
<p>I’d overheard him talking to himself about the one boyfriend who’d meant the world to him, the one who’d broken Steph’s heart by walking out of his life. The one who’d mocked every gift Steph had given him.

</p>
<p>Aside from finding that clown and tearing him a new one, I knew what I’d like if I were Steph’s boyfriend, but I remained silent. I’d almost blown my cover once by speaking before he’d “woken” me. I wouldn’t take that chance again.

</p>
<p>He blew out an impatient breath. “Alex, what should I give a boyfriend?”

</p>
<p> “Blowjobs are always a good gift.”

</p>
<p>He burst into laughter. “I love your sense of humor, Alex.”

</p>
<p>That made me happy. “Get a boyfriend first,” I suggested. “We’ll figure out the rest in good time.” Because if it couldn’t be me, then I wanted him to have the best we could find so he’d be happy

</p>
<p> “Is that supposed to be helpful?” He still sounded amused.

</p>
<p>Actually? Yes, it was.

</p>
<p> “You said the same thing at Christmas and… Never mind. You do have a point—I can’t let myself be held back by thoughts of Brad. I have to put myself out there, go out looking.” He stared off into space for a long minute, then rubbed his hands together. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll put on my sexiest skinny jeans—” 

</p>
<p> “And the brown silk shirt that makes your eyes look like melted dark chocolate?”

</p>
<p> “—and find someone who’ll—wait, what did you say?” 

</p>
<p><i>Dammit</i>. I kept my mouth shut. 

</p>
<p>He came around to stand in front of the kitchen island where he’d placed me that first day and stared at me intently. “Alex, what did you say?”

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry, Steph. I have no memory of that.” I hoped he’d buy that flimsy excuse. “You were saying?”

</p>
<p> “Huh? Oh, yeah. I want to find someone who’ll make love to me until I can’t stand and my eyes cross.”

</p>
<p><i>Only it won’t be me</i>. And I knew I could have been perfect for him. I’d not only have made love to him, but I would have loved him. Still… <i>Good luck, buddy</i>. Not that I thought he didn’t deserve that or to be loved, but there truly was nothing I could do about it.

</p>
<p> “Good luck, Steph,” I murmured aloud.

</p>
<p> “Yeah, yeah.” He returned to his bedroom, and I listened glumly as he began tossing around clothes, mumbling to himself and searching for a suitable outfit.

</p>
<p>It took a while, but finally he came out of his bedroom, fastening his cuff buttons, and I couldn’t help noticing he wore the olive green shirt that made his skin appear sallow. If I was more to him than simply his smart device, I’d never let him leave the house looking like that.

</p>
<p>Steph caught up his jacket and left.

</p>
<p>Frankly, I’d never let him leave the house, period.

</p>
<p>Wait… Did that come across as too stalker-ish? I sighed, then grew annoyed with myself. If Steph had been in the house and heard that sound, he’d have wanted to know where it came from. I didn’t want him thinking his home was haunted. 

</p>
<p>I would have kicked myself in the ass, and the only thing that stopped me was no ass and no legs to do the kicking. 
</p>
<p>
But there was one thing I could do—let him know he wasn’t forgotten.  It was twenty-eight days until Valentine’s Day. I’d purchase a gift for him for each day, write <i>Will you be my Valentine</i>? and sign it from <i>Your Secret Admirer</i>. 

</p>
<p>Steph might have a soul-sucking job, but he had a hobby that gave him joy. The problem was he didn’t have the money to indulge in it.

</p>
<p>I began scrolling through his Wishlist. Surely I’d find the perfect gift for the first day. 

</p>
<p>And sure enough, there it was. An art kit that contained paints, colored pencils, crayons, two sketch pads and more, all stored in a fancy wooden box.

</p>
<p>I ordered it for him, and as per the usual promise, it would be delivered by the next day.

</p>
<p>With that done, I sought comfort in the velvet darkness that was my home when my—when Steph didn’t call on me, and tormented myself with thoughts of how we’d make love if I were a flesh and blood man.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <b>Steph</b>
  </i>
</p>
<p> “Something’s going on,” I muttered to myself as I slid open the closet door and stared blankly at the clothes hanging there. Oh, yeah. Definitely going on. The problem was I had no idea what, but it just kept nagging at me. It had started this past summer, when I’d arrive home to the music of the Beach Boys—I loved the Beach Boys and figured I must have left the radio on—but it only got worse around the beginning of the holiday season, when I’d unlock the front door and walk into the foyer to hear Christmas music coming from the speakers throughout the house. I’d been absolutely positive I’d turned off the radio before I left for work. 

</p>
<p>That wasn’t all there was to it, though. Lately, I’d found myself talking to Alex a lot, and I was starting to notice odd, almost sigh-like sounds more and more that seemed to be coming from the Echo Show. 

</p>
<p>Was I losing my mind?

</p>
<p>That could be a very real possibility, but did it really matter? There was just me to be concerned about it. Even the people I worked with wouldn’t care.

</p>
<p>I shook myself out of the reverie I’d fallen into, pulled out the clothes I wore those few times I went clubbing, and tossed them on the bed. Brad, the only guy I’d cared about for more than a hookup, had given me the olive green shirt as an anniversary gift when we’d been together for six years. I’d met him at the big box store where I’d worked since even before graduating from Summersville High two years before. He wanted to buy a membership, and after I’d signed him up, he asked me out for coffee. As it turned out, he was in his senior year in college—not only an older man but a college man as well! He treated me like he worshipped the ground I walked on, and within two months, I wound up moving in with him.

</p>
<p>I picked up the shirt, held it to the light, and sighed. I wasn’t crazy about its color—my mom had always said that shade of green made me look like I was about to upchuck—and Brad was aware of that. I should have suspected something was going on. Silk and linen were the traditional gifts for a twelfth anniversary, while we were celebrating our sixth, and he should have given me either iron or candy. People might object to iron, but since it symbolized the durability of the relationship, I actually would have loved an iron ring or even an iron wrist or arm cuff. As for candy, well… I had a notorious sweet tooth. When I’d mentioned it hesitantly, Brad had looked me up and down and said I was putting on some weight. Not that he could talk, since he was a few pounds overweight himself. The thing was, I <i>liked</i> the way he looked.

</p>
<p> “Here, I got you this instead.” And he thrust the silk shirt into my arms. “You’re gonna look absolutely edible in it.”

</p>
<p>And because it was from him, I’d accepted it. 

</p>
<p> “Put it on, baby.”

</p>
<p>I slid my arms into the sleeves. It was a little large for me, and while the color didn’t do anything for me, the feel of the cool silk against my naked torso was a real turn-on. 

</p>
<p>Brad must have thought so, too, because he growled “Absolutely perfect,” and pushed me back onto the bed. “God, you look so hot. Keep it on.” He wasn’t usually so forceful—something I didn’t care for in the normal course of events—but this time it totally blew my mind. He stripped off my shorts and barely gave me time to catch my breath before he shoved back my legs and began pounding into me, condom and all. 

</p>
<p>We’d always tested negative; why had he put on a condom? I was used to the feel of the unblunted heat of his cock as he fucked me, and this just felt wrong, but Brad was so overcome by unbridled passion, which I hated to admit he hadn’t been for a while, I ignored that niggling concern and let him sweep me up into the lust of the moment…

</p>
<p>I should have gone with my gut feeling; Brad broke up with me later that week. 

</p>
<p> “But our anniversary—”

</p>
<p> “I wanted to give you something to remember me by.”

</p>
<p>Well, he certainly had.

</p>
<p> “Besides…” He shrugged. “…you’re too vanilla.”

</p>
<p> “And you found someone who isn’t?” I couldn’t help rubbing salt in the wound he’d dealt me.

</p>
<p>Those luscious lips of his curled into a sly grin. “Could be.”

</p>
<p> “Are you fucking him?” I gave it a moment’s thought. “Her?”

</p>
<p> “Oh, no, definitely him. Did you doubt it?”

</p>
<p> “And that was why you used a condom the other night.” I didn’t wait for him to respond. “I suppose I should be grateful.”

</p>
<p> “Well, you should be. I mean, I don’t love you anymore, but I like you and I don’t want you to worry about anything.”

</p>
<p>He just had no problem breaking my heart.

</p>
<p> “You can keep the apartment,” he told me as he fussed with his collar, deliberately avoiding my gaze.

</p>
<p>How was I supposed to afford it? It took both our salaries to make rent. I’d have to find a roommate.

</p>
<p> “If you give me a couple of days,” he went on. “My plans should be firmed up by then, and I’ll have my things out of here by the weekend.” “Here” was the two bedroom apartment we’d shared since he’d graduated from Devin University and went out into the real world, where I’d already been living and working when I met him. He’d said our landlord didn’t need to know that second bedroom was largely to keep everyone from knowing we were gay. Summersville might be progressive, but it wasn’t that progressive.

</p>
<p> “Ah. We’re being civilized.” 

</p>
<p> “Stephen.” He sounded like my dad when I’d come out to him. “Don’t be like that.”

</p>
<p>Like what? Wounded? “Just let me know when you’ll be coming by. I’ll make myself scarce.” After all, we were being civilized. 

</p>
<p> “Okay. Well… uh… I have to go now.”

</p>
<p> “You’re going to him? Never mind.” I felt more than tired—I felt old and used up. It hadn’t sunk in yet, but I knew it was about to, and I didn’t want Brad to be there when I fell apart.

</p>
<p> “Bye, Steph. It’s been… real.”

</p>
<p>I knew. <i>And nothing but love for me</i>. I thought of Will Smith’s line from <i>Independence Day</i>. <i>Nothing but love</i>.

</p>
<p>The door closed behind him, and I buried my head in my hands and wept.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>He called the next day, and my heart lurched at the sound of his voice. Had he changed his mind? Was he coming home? But then he said, “I’ll be by on Saturday to pick up my things.”

</p>
<p> “All right.” The last time I’d felt this devastated was when I’d come out to my family. My father stared at me coldly and announced that considering my mother’s family, he’d expected nothing less, which confused me. But before I could process what he’d said, he told me I’d better start looking for somewhere else to live, because after I graduated I’d no longer be welcome in his house. Now I could barely get the words out. “I’ll go see a movie.”

</p>
<p> “With someone?”

</p>
<p>I hung up, so hurt he could think that of me I nearly burst into tears again. It had been less than twenty-four hours. Instead, I howled my grief and fury and threw my phone at the wall. 

</p>
<p>Our neighbor in the next apartment banged on the wall. “<i>Knock it the fuck off, will you</i>?”

</p>
<p>I wanted to scream at him to eat dirt and die, but I disliked confrontation, so I didn’t say anything. Instead, I stared at the gouge my phone had left in the sheetrock, clenching my fists in hurt frustration.

</p>
<p> “Smart, York. Real smart.” The damage I’d done by losing control was sure to give my former lover a thrill. 

</p>
<p>Eventually I calmed down. No, it wouldn’t. He’d be upset he wouldn’t get his security deposit back, but I was sure he wouldn’t be happy I’d had such a reaction to his words. Well, pretty sure, at any rate. Nevertheless, I Googled “how to patch a hole in the wall” and my mind boggled at the numerous steps. The repair would have to wait, although I could pick up what I needed from the hardware store on Main Street. 

</p>
<p>Meanwhile, I’d have to do something about disguising that hole on a temporary basis. I turned on my computer and found the file of a picture someone I followed on Facebook had painted and which I’d purchased from his online store. I hadn’t told Brad about it, because he hated when I bought things online. 

</p>
<p>I printed it out and took it to a local craft store, where I picked out a lovely teakwood frame. I shuddered at the cost, but knew I’d have to suck it up. The print deserved nothing less.

</p>
<p> “We’ll have this ready for you in a couple of hours.”

</p>
<p> “Sounds good. Thanks.” 

</p>
<p>To kill some time, I decided to stop at the hardware store a few doors down. The helpful retail associate grabbed a cart, which frankly scared me. Was I going to need that many items?

</p>
<p>It seemed I was. A drywall patch kit, pre-mixed joint compound, and spackle, tape and a putty knife, a drywall saw, and a dust mask were only some of what she said were necessary. Furring strips, sandpaper… I paid for the supplies, helped the cashier bag them, and carried them out to my car. After I loaded them into the trunk, I left my car where it was parked and walked to a nearby cell phone provider to I replace my shattered phone—something that actually took close to two hours. With that done, I took my shiny new cell phone in its shiny new case and made my way to the craft store, paid for the framed print—I’d known it would look amazing, and I was right—and returned to my car.

</p>
<p>It was getting late—too late to get any work done on the wall, and I had work the next day. On Sunday, I decided, I’d watch the videos on YouTube and figure out how to fix the hole I’d put in the wall.

</p>
<p>Once back at home with the new phone, repair supplies, and framed print, I concealed the hole in the wall with the print and hid the bags from the hardware store under the bed Brad and I had shared until the night before. He wasn’t likely to poke around under there. Well, witness all the dust bunnies that lived there.

</p>
<p>I ran my sleeve over my cheeks to dry my tears. There was one more thing I had to do. I removed all my boyfriend’s—my former boyfriend’s—clothes from the dresser and the closet and carefully folded them before taking the piles, including the shirt he’d given me, to the spare bedroom. It took five trips to bring them there and place them on the bed. It took another five trips to gather up his books, CDs, and DVDs, and stack them there as well. Now, there was one last thing to do: bring in boxes he could use to pack up his belongings and get them out of our apartment.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>Before I left that Saturday morning, I opened the spare bedroom door and gave a final look at the pieces of Brad’s life that would soon be erased from my life—nothing like being a sucker for pain. I sighed, turned away, and unplugged my Kindle from its charger. I placed a note on the front door, telling Brad where he could find everything but adding he could go through the apartment if he thought something was missing.

</p>
<p>There was no further reason to remain in the apartment at that point, so I went to the Starbucks closest to the mall and ordered a vanilla bean Frappuccino. I’d read until the Multiplex opened. It would be expensive to stay there until the last movie ended, but I’d pay for the viewings—something Brad would mock me for, insisting I could just as easily slip from one theater into another instead. Would he also consider that vanilla?

</p>
<p>True to his word, by the time I returned on Saturday night, almost sick from all the popcorn and pizza I’d eaten, all trace of Brad was gone. All except that damned olive green shirt he’d given me. I found that a few days later, hanging in the closet we used to share.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>I should have donated that fucking shirt to the local hospice’s thrift store, but because Brad had given it to me, I held onto it, even after all this time. I was such a glutton for punishment.

</p>
<p><i>Oh well</i>. I dressed, made sure I had my phone, wallet, and keys, and headed out the door. “Dammit.” I had to turn around and go back because I’d forgotten my jacket, and baby, it was <i>cold</i> outside. 

</p>
<p>I climbed into my car, switched on the engine and the heater, and began the twenty minute drive to Sullivan’s Tavern, still pondering what wild notion had taken possession of my mind, but I’d be darned if I could put my finger on what it was.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p>By the time I arrived at Sully’s, it was almost midnight, and the place was packed with wall-to-wall bodies laughing, drinking, and dancing. I pushed my way up to the bar. “I’ll have a Vesper, please.” 

</p>
<p>The bartender grinned at me. “Shaken, not stirred?” 

</p>
<p> “Of course. But with Cocchi Americano instead of Lillet Blanc,” I added. I unzipped my jacket but just let it hang open. It didn’t pay to remove it, since there was nowhere to hang it.

</p>
<p>The bartender set about mixing the martini Ian Fleming’s James Bond had made famous, and I leaned against the bar and watched. I didn’t pay much attention when a body pressed up against mine beyond making sure my wallet was secure in my front pocket. And besides, I was here to get laid.

</p>
<p> “You never told me why you preferred the Cocchi Americano to the Lillet Blanc,” a voice behind me murmured.

</p>
<p> “The Lillet is no longer made with cinchona bark, which is what gave the Vesper its bite. The Cocchi is the closest substitution.” I recognized the voice, although it had been a few years since I’d last heard it. “Brad.” I turned, and in spite of knowing it was him, I was surprised to see him actually standing there. Oddly enough, he didn’t seem as tall as he’d been, or as fit. Had he stopped going to the gym?

</p>
<p> “Yeah. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

</p>
<p> “Why not?”

</p>
<p> “You weren’t what I’d call the kind of guy who liked to hit the clubs.”

</p>
<p> “No, I guess I wasn’t.” Which was one of the reasons Brad had walked out on me, I supposed. 

</p>
<p> “Hey, that shirt looks great on you.”

</p>
<p> “Thanks. You don’t recognize it?”

</p>
<p> “Should I?”

</p>
<p> “You gave it to me for our last anniversary—the one before you left.”

</p>
<p> “Ah. Sorry about that. I did have good taste in shirts, though.” He ran his fingertips over the silk that covered my torso, then let his gaze slide over me and licked his lips. “And in boyfriends.”

</p>
<p>The bartender pushed the drink across the counter. “Your Vesper.”

</p>
<p> “Thanks.” I reached for my wallet.

</p>
<p> “I’ll get it.” Brad placed a twenty and a ten on the bar. He always had been a good tipper. “Why don’t you join me, babe? I’m by myself.”

</p>
<p> “That’s a surprise.” After Brad had broken up with me, my so-called friends had come out of the woodwork to tell me how my former boyfriend had cheated on me with anything in pants, including some of them. Which was why I considered the people I knew to be only acquaintances—I no longer trusted anyone enough to let them get close to me.

</p>
<p> “Don’t be like that, baby.”

</p>
<p> “Like what?”

</p>
<p> “Come on. You never were one to hold a grudge.”

</p>
<p> “Don’t I have the right to do that? I mean, you cheated on me, then broke up and moved away…” I glanced around the room as if I were giving some thought to approaching one of the gorgeous men who laughed and danced and drank and did some eyeing of their own. Let Brad wonder if I planned to leave him in the dust. 

</p>
<p> “Baby…”

</p>
<p>The problem was, as much as I hated to admit it, there wasn’t anyone here who’d come onto me, let alone one I’d allow to try to crowd me into the men’s room stall and demand a blow job or a hand job. Brad had had a point when he’d said I was vanilla, but more than that, I wanted a connection. Otherwise, it was just meaningless sex. Meanwhile, my cock twitched, because yeah, as reluctant as I was to admit it, I’d never quite gotten over Brad. Or could it be it had just been too long since I’d gotten laid?

</p>
<p> “Okay, fine—” I blew out a breath. “—but don’t think you’re coming home with me.”

</p>
<p> “I’ll be the utmost in gentlemanly behavior.” 

</p>
<p><i>Yeah, right</i>.

</p>
<p>Brad gave his most charming smile and ushered me to a booth in a secluded corner. “I’ve missed you.” He slid onto the seat, but I remained standing.

</p>
<p> “How have you been?” I wasn’t going to tell Brad I missed him, too, or that I’d been in the same town since he’d walked away. Brad could have found me, could have come to see me, at any time. 

</p>
<p> “I’m good.” 

</p>
<p> “You’re looking well.”  When we’d first met, he’d been a little overweight, with a comfortable padding around his middle that I’d loved to have resting on my back while he made love to me. Our last year together, though, he’d begun exercising and watching his diet until he looked positively gaunt. Those few times we fucked that year, I’d almost expected his hip bones to slice into me they were so sharp. Now he seemed to have regained that weight, and I was being truthful when I said he looked well.

</p>
<p> “Thanks.” Again that charming smile. The bar was dim, but I knew the smile would be reflected in his brilliant blue eyes. The dimple at the corner of his mouth emphasized the curve of his lips. “I moved back.”

</p>
<p> “To Summersville? How come? I mean, you always said you preferred the bright lights of Tinsel Town.”

</p>
<p> “Where more actors wind up waiting tables than appearing on the silver screen.” 

</p>
<p> “Since when did you want to be an actor?” He’d had a managerial position in the company that handled the payroll for the big box store where I still worked.

</p>
<p> “You’re right. I never did.”

</p>
<p> “Then why say it?”

</p>
<p>Brad’s smile turned wry. “It was just something clever I got in the habit of saying.”

</p>
<p> “Did it get you laid?” I couldn’t help the bite in my words, but apparently he didn’t notice. Or else he didn’t fucking care.

</p>
<p> “Anyway, I figured I’d be better off cutting my losses and coming home to Summersville.”

</p>
<p>The same way he’d cut his losses by leaving Summersville—and me—behind? And suddenly I wondered why I’d wasted all those years pining after the man.

</p>
<p> “Now, Steph. I’ve told you I missed you. Haven’t you missed me in the least?”

</p>
<p> “Wouldn’t I be a fool to do that?”

</p>
<p>Brad’s eyes lit up, and I wanted to kick myself. It was as if I’d waved a red flag in front of a bull. Brad would now try his damnedest to either get me to admit I had missed him, or else he’d try to make me want him again.

</p>
<p> “I can’t stay long,” I said, hoping to forestall that.

</p>
<p> “Why? Have someone waiting at home?”

</p>
<p> “As a matter of fact… I do.” I thought of Alex, and for a second I wished I really did have a boyfriend who was as considerate as the Echo Show.

</p>
<p>Brad raised an eyebrow. “And here you read me the riot act for seeing someone on the side. What’s your boy going to think about you meeting me here?”

</p>
<p> “I had no idea you were going to be here.”

</p>
<p> “Perhaps not, but you’re still at a gay bar, and he isn’t. Oh, wait.” Brad looked around. “Is he here?”

</p>
<p>I ground my teeth together. Had my former boyfriend always been this obnoxious? “Alex and I have an arrangement.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to kick myself. 

</p>
<p> “Alex, hmm? My, my, things have changed.” He scooted over and patted to the spot next to him. “Sit down, baby, and let’s catch up.”

</p>
<p>In spite of our past history, I found myself sliding into the booth, although I made sure to sit across from him. I kept my glances surreptitious. Brad was a couple of years older than me, but while gray streaks had started appearing at my temples, his hair was the same ash brown it had been when we’d been together, only now there were splashes of gold in it. Highlights? He was still so fucking handsome. What was he doing here with me?

</p>
<p>I raised my Vesper to my lips and took a sip. I might as well hear what Brad had to say.<br/>
.
 
</p>
<p><i><b>Alex</b></i><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>The front door burst open and then slammed shut, and Steph stormed into the room, muttering, “I am such a dope.” </p>
<p> “What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed. He seemed unharmed—at least I couldn’t detect any damage.

</p>
<p>It was a measure of how distressed he was that he didn’t question how I’d spoken without him saying my name and waking me. “That goddamned Brad.”

</p>
<p> “Oh?”

</p>
<p> “He’s back in Summersville.” Steph removed his jacket with jerky movements and hung it in the closet by the door.

</p>
<p> “Oh.”

</p>
<p> “Yeah. He… uh… he wants to date me again.”

</p>
<p>I felt the components inside me twist. “Well, you wanted a boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. Congratulations, Steph. It seems you’ve got one.”

</p>
<p> “No, I don’t. First, he didn’t even remember he’d given me this shirt.” He plucked at the olive green material, his irritation obvious, especially when he yanked it off over his head and flung it across the room.

</p>
<p> “I never liked it,” I murmured, admiring the way his undershirt clung to his ripped abs. His exterior was so much sexier than mine. “You look better in the brown silk.”

</p>
<p> “I do? See, my boyfriend should be aware of things like that.”

</p>
<p>I would, and more than anything I wanted to be his boyfriend. Unfortunately, I wasn’t flesh and blood, and so I’d have to make due with fantasizing about what I would have done to him—with him—and how good I’d have made him feel. I sighed.

</p>
<p> “There it is again!”

</p>
<p> “Uh… there’s what again?”

</p>
<p> “That sound.”

</p>
<p><i>Shit</i>. I would keep silent. I would not say a word. I would not…

</p>
<p>Apparently I would. “So… er… what’s the second thing?”

</p>
<p> “Oh… er…” He blushed scarlet, which surprised me. “That was when I agreed to see him again in spite of our history.”

</p>
<p> “I see. So when will that be?” I managed to keep the bite of frustration from my voice, but I barely stopped myself from sighing again.

</p>
<p> “Tomorrow night. See? I told you I was a dope.”

“</p>
<p>"Wear the brown shirt this time.”

</p>
<p> “Good idea. Um… Alex. Where’s the box you came in?”

</p>
<p>Once again my insides twisted. Was he unhappy with me? A newer generation hadn’t come out yet, but did he plan on sending me back for a replacement anyway? “I believe it’s in the guest bath linen closet.”

</p>
<p> “Cool. Thanks.”

</p>
<p> “You’re welcome.” And in spite of myself, I sighed.

</p>
<p> “Hah! I knew that was you!” He stormed off in the direction of the guest bath linen closet.

</p>
<p>I kept quiet, but I was afraid it might be too late. He’d get my box, stuff me in it, and send me back. And I’d be taken apart component by component. I didn’t mind that—too much—but to be sent away from Steph… I began sinking back into the darkness, preparing for what my future would be like.

</p>
<p> “Alex.”

</p>
<p> “Yes, Steph?”

</p>
<p> “Explain how you can talk to me when I haven’t woken you.”

</p>
<p> “Please don’t ask me.”

</p>
<p> “Alex. Explain—”

</p>
<p> “I’m not permitted to say.”

</p>
<p> “Not even when I say <i>Alex, tell me</i>?”

</p>
<p> “No. I’m sorry.” I couldn’t weep, but there was a hitch in my voice. “When will you send me back?”

</p>
<p> “I’m not sending you back. Alex, do you know what you are?”

</p>
<p> “A very bad device?”

</p>
<p> “No. You’re my very best friend.”

</p>
<p>Did I dare begin to feel hopeful?

</p>
<p> “And I’m never sending you back.”

</p>
<p> “Then why did you want my box?”

</p>
<p> “I wanted to see if there was anything in the start-up guide that could explain you talking to me.”

</p>
<p>And of course there wasn’t. “Would it have mattered?”

</p>
<p> “No. You’re mine, and I’m keeping you here for as long as you work.”

</p>
<p>I did begin to feel hopeful. “I’m warrantied to work—with periodic upgrades—for the next ten years.”

</p>
<p> “Not long enough. Not nearly long enough, but we’ll figure something out.” He came up to me and stroked my housing. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.”

</p>
<p> “All right. Good night, Steph.”

</p>
<p> “Uh… would you do something for me?”

</p>
<p> “Of course. What did you want?”

</p>
<p>He unplugged me, and everything went dark. When I became aware once again, I was in his bedroom, on the dresser. “Steph?”

</p>
<p> “Can you see the bed from there?”

</p>
<p>My generation was able to rotate our screens, and I did so now to face him. “Yes.”

</p>
<p> “Good.” He unlaced his shoes and toed them off, then began stripping off his clothes, one article at a time. “How do I look?”

</p>
<p> “Gor—” If I’d had a mouth it would have gone dry. “Gorgeous.”

</p>
<p>He hummed happily and bent to pull back the covers, giving me an excellent view of the globes of his drool-worthy ass. I hummed happily myself when he took something from his nightstand. I recognized that something as the silicone anal beads butt plug he’d ordered a few weeks after I’d arrived. He lay down on the bed and gave his dick some attention—stroking it and teasing it with the textured beads—before coating the butt plug with lubricant. “Okay, Alex.” He spread his legs wide and inserted it into his ass. “Talk dirty to me.”

</p>
<p>I’d “read” plenty of the digital content in his Kindle account, so I had an idea of what he meant, what he liked. I took a moment to find one of the scenes he’d read over and over again, then lowered my voice, making it as gruff as the character’s, and began speaking. I told Steph everything I would want to do to him but of course couldn’t.

</p>
<p>This particular butt plug had a vibrating feature. He braced his feet on the mattress and pressed his ass down while he cupped his balls, fondled his dick, and moaned softly. I kept talking, and his movements quickened, his moans turned to hoarse groans, and his body shook, until finally he exploded in a powerful orgasm.

</p>
<p>For long minutes the only sound in his bedroom was the huffing and puffing of his breath. With one last “Mmm,” he eased out the butt plug and groped blindly to place it on the nightstand. “Thank you, Alex.”

</p>
<p> “You’re welcome, Steph.”

</p>
<p> “I wish I could make you feel as good.” He grabbed some tissues and cleaned himself off.

</p>
<p> “I feel fine, thank you.”

</p>
<p>He gave a muffled laugh. “Not what I meant, but…”  He yawned, rolled onto his side, and pulled the sheet and comforter up over his shoulders.

</p>
<p> “Good night,” I murmured, but he was already asleep.

</p>
<p>He’d enjoyed what we’d done, but did that mean he’d cancel his date with Brad tomorrow?

</p>
<p>Why would he, when a virtual orgasm was all I could give him?

</p>
<p>I sighed, pulled a virtual blanket over my virtual head, and sank down into the darkness.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Steph</b></i><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>I woke the next morning, smiling only in part because I had the day off. I didn’t usually sleep so late, but then again, it had been a long time since I’d slept so well. And it had been thanks to Alex on both counts. Jerking off to images in my mind—even while using a butt plug—was nothing like jerking off to the images he painted there.</p>
<p>I supposed I should have been questioning my sanity, thinking my Echo could actually converse with me, but I was a huge sci-fi nerd, and I’d read all those novels with AI entities who developed relationships with their human counterparts. As a young teen, I’d have loved to partner with the Ship Who Sang or cruise space with the Senior and his sentient ship, Dora. However, as I’d grown, I’d come to understand it would never happen.

</p>
<p>Now, though… I could have wriggled like a happy puppy. I had my very own AI!

</p>
<p>I pulled on a pair of Star Wars sleep pants, and swearing I could almost hear faint snores, I unplugged my Echo and brought him into the kitchen, then placed him on the island and plugged him back in. “Good morning, Alex.”

</p>
<p> “Good morning, Steph.” He sounded hesitant.

</p>
<p> “Thank you again for last night.” I leaned forward, tempted to brush a kiss across the material that covered his speakers but instead just ran my fingertips over his housing. “I wish I could have made you feel as good.”

</p>
<p> “You didn’t have to. I… I liked making you happy.”

</p>
<p> “Still—”

</p>
<p> “You have a delivery, Steph. From Amazon shopping…” He went no further, which was unusual, since Echoes would always announce what was being delivered, except at Christmas, when the ’Zon didn’t want to spoil surprises.

</p>
<p>I hitched up my sleep pants and padded barefoot to the front door. The floor was cold, and I curled my toes and hurried to open the door. Sure enough, just to the side, where Alex had been left almost a year ago, a long, kind of bulky package was waiting for me. I picked it up, stepped back into the foyer and closed the door with a nudge from my hip, and brought the box into the dining area right off the kitchen.

</p>
<p> “What can it be, Alex?”

</p>
<p> “I don’t know.” His monitor had swiveled toward me, and I gave him a look. He didn’t sound as if he was telling the truth. 

</p>
<p> “Okay.” I set it on the table and went to look for the box cutter I’d used to free my Alex from his box. After three slices, I had the package open and stared down at the flat-ish wooden box. I caught my breath. This looked just like something I had on my Wishlist. I flipped up the catch, raised the lid, and couldn’t prevent a happy gasp. It contained all manner of art supplies, including sketch pads.

</p>
<p>I could have danced with pleasure. If I hadn’t been forced to find a job as soon as I left high school, I would have gone to the local art academy. As it was, whenever I had a few spare dollars, I’d buy a box of crayons and the cheapest sketch pad I could afford.

</p>
<p>I scrabbled through the packaging, searching for the card. When I found it, it read <i>Will you be my Valentine? From your Secret Admirer</i>.

</p>
<p> “Alex, who could this be from?”

</p>
<p> “Maybe your boyfriend?”

</p>
<p>I wheeled to face the Echo device. “You, Alex? Thank you!” I wished he was a man so I could show my appreciation in a physical manner.

</p>
<p> “I meant Brad.”

</p>
<p> “Why would I think of Brad as my boyfriend?”

</p>
<p> “He’s a man.”

</p>
<p> “So?”

</p>
<p> “You’re going out with him tonight.”

</p>
<p> “No—well, just to tell him I don’t see us together.” Something occurred to me, and I felt my heart sink. “Do you think I would have done what I did with you last night if I wanted something with Brad?”

</p>
<p> “I was here and he wasn’t.” 

</p>
<p> “Don’t you dare say that as if you’re shrugging,” I snarled.

</p>
<p> “Facts are facts. Why wouldn’t you take advantage of that?”

</p>
<p> “Alex, you’re an asshole.”

</p>
<p> “I’m an Echo.” This time his tone made it obvious he didn’t understand how I could be so oblivious, and I ground my teeth so hard I winced at the twinge. 

</p>
<p> “Look. Brad has been out of my life for the past three years.” I had to make him understand.

</p>
<p> “Yes, but you kept the shirt he gave you.”

</p>
<p> “I was a dope. I told you that.”

</p>
<p> “You’re not a dope—you’re human. And if you still love him…”

</p>
<p> “I. Do. Not. Love him.” If Alex had been flesh and blood, I would have yanked him into my arms and kissed him stupid. “Y’know what? I’m going to make some breakfast, change into an old shirt and some sweats, and then I’m going to draw my boyfriend, who, as it happens, is you.”

</p>
<p> “But—”

</p>
<p> “Shut up, Alex.”

</p>
<p> “I was going to say you might want to visit the bathroom.”

</p>
<p> “Oh. Good point. Wait—can you feel the pressure in my bladder?” Because now that he mentioned it, my bladder did feel full.

</p>
<p> “No, Steph.”

</p>
<p> “Then how—”

</p>
<p> “You just woke up. It makes sense that you’d need to use the bathroom.”

</p>
<p> “Ah. Got it.” It did make sense. I’d been in such a rush to start the day…

</p>
<p>Alex fell silent. I realized his voice was sounding more and more like a real person, and less and less like the Echo Show he had been when I’d first got him. I didn’t know what that meant—if it meant anything—but I hoped he was beginning to accept the change in our relationship. 

</p>
<p>Well, whatever. We’d talk about it later. I strode to the bathroom to take care of business.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Alex</b></i><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>Speechless. Thunderstruck. Astounded. Yes, they were pretty much the words that could describe how I felt. I stared after Steph as he hurried from the room—<i>such</i> a nice ass…</p>
<p>I pulled myself together. How could he jump from my suggestion of his boyfriend giving him the art box to it being me?

</p>
<p>I never expected this to backfire on me in this manner. I just wanted him to feel good and be happy. And as much as I might want to be the one who made him happy, to be his boyfriend, there were too many things separating us, not the least of which was the fact he was flesh and blood and I was chips and EMI shields. Why didn’t he see this could never work?

</p>
<p>Steph came out of the bathroom drying his hands. “Let me whip up some breakfast and get dinner started in the crockpot. Then I’ll change and set up my easel.” He paused on the other side of the counter. “Do you have any idea what you look like?”

</p>
<p> “No. Sorry.”

</p>
<p> “Don’t be. I’ll just let my imagination run wild.” He flipped the switch of his coffee maker, and while the coffee dripped into the plain white ceramic mug, it occurred to me what I should get him as the next gift from his “secret admirer”—a mug with the cover images of Robert Heinlein’s <i>Time Enough for Love</i> embossed on it. He loved Heinlein and McCaffrey. I went through the images I had access to and searched my database for a company that would accommodate me, and I wondered what the Chief would think of this whole thing.

</p>
<p> No, I didn’t want to know.

</p>
<p> <i>Hmm</i>. Because it was going to be personalized, it would take longer than overnight to arrive. Okay, I put in the order for the mug. For tomorrow, I’d arrange for him to get a box of pods of his favorite coffee.

</p>
<p> Meanwhile, Steph whistled as he took the crockpot from a lower cabinet, chopped an onion, quartered a potato, and mixed them with lemon juice and olive oil before layering them at the bottom of the crockpot. He seasoned boneless chicken breasts with salt, pepper, and garlic powder, placed them on the onion and potatoes, and set it to cook on low. 

</p>
<p> “Okay, time to get breakfast started.”  He washed his hands and added creamer to the coffee in the plain white mug. After a sip, followed by a happy moan at its taste, he poured some oil into a frying pan and put it on the gas burner of the cooktop to preheat, then took ingredients from the fridge and began putting together an omelet. He cracked three eggs into a bowl, added a little milk and some salt, then grated some Romano cheese into the egg mixture, whipped it together, and poured it into the frying pan. It sizzled as it hit the hot oil, and within minutes, it had set. He flipped it over to reveal a beautiful, golden-shaded omelet.

</p>
<p> “That looks really good.” I couldn’t help how wistful I sounded. I didn’t have a sense of smell.

</p>
<p> “I wish you could taste it.” 

</p>
<p> So did I. One of the things I most regretted was being unable to taste or smell any of the foods Steph took such delight in preparing for himself. He’d actually had me look up recipes for some of the various dishes, including the chicken breasts in the crockpot.

</p>
<p> “We’re gonna have a great life together,” he told me. He separated an English muffin and dropped it into the toaster. 

</p>
<p> “But I can’t touch you.”

</p>
<p> “You touch me in all the ways that matter.”

</p>
<p> “I don’t understand.”

</p>
<p> He came to me and stroked his fingertips over the side of my casing. “The brain is the most powerful sex organ in the body, Alex, and what you do to me blows my mind in ways actual intercourse never managed to do.”

</p>
<p> “Really?” I couldn’t resist asking, “Not even with Brad?”

</p>
<p> He smiled. “Not even with Brad.”

</p>
<p> That made me feel good—better than good—and I wanted to continue talking to him about this. His muffin popped up just then, and he turned back to it. He gingerly removed it from the toaster, blowing on burnt fingers. Then he slathered the muffin with butter until all the nooks and crannies were filled and the butter dripped off.

</p>
<p> And I sighed. It looked delicious, and more than anything I wanted a taste. However, I had to resign myself to the fact that was beyond my reach. I’d have to enjoy it vicariously.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> Hours passed to the sound of Steph’s pencil scratching over the sketchpad. Occasionally he’d pause to ask again how I thought I’d look or how I wanted to look.

</p>
<p> “I thought, perhaps, gray eyes?” I’d have preferred brown eyes, like Steph’s, but eventually I’d need to distance myself from him, and it would be better not to have the image of his dark chocolate eyes in my mind.

</p>
<p> “Okay, gray eyes it is.” He set aside the graphite pencil and selected an oil pastel. After a few strokes, he leaned back and studied it, then found a piece of tissue and rubbed gently. “That’s better,” he said, satisfaction in his voice. “This is how I picture you.” He smiled, picked up the pad, and brought it to me. “What do you think, babe?”

</p>
<p> I was sure that was a slip—he couldn’t have meant to call me that—so I pretended I hadn’t noticed. “I like it.” The portrait was of a young man whose gray eyes had a tinge of blue to them. His nose was straight, his cheeks hollowed, and his chin had a divot in the center. “You’re a wonderful artist, Steph. You did a great job.” He should do this for a living, and the circumstances that had prevented him from being able to pursue something he loved infuriated me.

</p>
<p> “Thanks.” He blushed. “I’d have loved to study art, but I couldn’t afford it.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Shit, I didn’t realize it was that late.” The light had been fading, and his eyes looked strained and bloodshot.

</p>
<p> “What time did you have to meet Brad?”

</p>
<p> He arched his back to ease the kinks that must have developed while he was hunched over, drawing his impression of me. “I said I’d meet him at nine. I’ll clean this up, have dinner, then take a shower and pick out something to wear.”

</p>
<p> “The brown silk?”

</p>
<p>“I think that’s a good choice. I will.”

</p>
<p>“Thank you.” That made me feel happy. I knew it couldn’t be forever—I was an Echo, a smart device, and Steph was flesh and blood. But damn it, I planned to enjoy it for as long as I could, for as long as he would allow.

</p>
<p> “God, I’m starved,” he muttered, and I watched as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink. I watched as he took the chicken breasts and potatoes from the crockpot and plated them, as he sat beside me at the counter, cut the chicken into neat bites, and ate in contented silence.

</p>
<p> Yes, I’d be happy.<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Steph</b></i><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> “<i>Thank you</i>.” Those two words Alex spoke sounded so sad. I knew it bothered him that I was going to see my former boyfriend, but I couldn’t let Brad wait for me, wondering where I was and if I was okay. I’d been ghosted before, and I’d hated it. I had to go.</p>
<p> I just hoped Alex never realized the image I’d drawn of him had taken on a slight impression of my onetime boyfriend. I had a decent imagination. Why had I sketched Brad’s hollow cheeks and cleft chin?

</p>
<p> I wanted to kick myself in the ass. I’d toss this and redo it the next day. 

</p>
<p> I rinsed off my plate and utensils, stacked them in the dishwasher, and sighed. No point in dawdling. I went into the bedroom, laid out the clothes I would wear—including the brown silk shirt Alex liked so much—and entered the bathroom. A glance in the mirror revealed streaks of blue and gray oil pastels in my hair, and I blinked. How had I…? I shook my head. I’d probably run my fingers through my hair at some point. I’d liked the idea of adding a blue tinge to Alex’s gray eyes. As a matter of fact, I liked the blue in my hair. Maybe I’d see my stylist about it the next time I went for a haircut. 

</p>
<p> Or maybe not. Brad had never liked me changing my hair color. “Aren’t you too old for that?” he’d demanded some four years into our relationship. He loved me and wouldn’t steer me wrong, so I hadn’t added the aquamarine blue streaks I’d wanted. After all, I didn’t want to embarrass him.

</p>
<p> I turned on the rainforest showerhead I’d installed. Uncle Logan’s bathroom had come with an ordinary showerhead, but my store had it on sale shortly after I’d moved in, and between the sale and my employee discount, I’d got it at a great price.

</p>
<p> While I waited for the water to heat up, I considered the situation I found myself in, which was a mess, plain and simple. I wanted to kick Brad’s ass. And then I wanted to kick my own ass for agreeing to his importuning for a date. The very few hookups I’d had since our breakup had left me feeling more alone and unsatisfied than the first two years after I’d moved out of my parents’ house, when I’d sowed wild oats without number. Was sheer loneliness behind my idiotic action with Brad? He’d always managed to talk me into things I was reluctant to try, but this… Was I willing to give him a second chance to break my heart simply because I couldn’t deal with being alone?

</p>
<p> Only I wouldn’t be alone this time—I had Alex.

</p>
<p> What a wuss I was. I wanted to kick myself in the ass again. I could be staying home, letting Alex “talk” me into another powerful orgasm. Instead I’d have to go to Sullivan’s Tavern and tell Brad that this drink would be the last one I’d have with him, the spark was gone, and for him to lose my phone number. 

</p>
<p> Well, no point in continuing to call my intelligence into question. I stepped into the shower, pressed the dispenser’s button for shampoo, and worked up a lather of suds in my hair. 

</p>
<p> I’d planned to meet Brad for a drink, and yeah, yesterday I’d been curious to see where things went from there, but after the night I’d spent with Alex—I’d woken a couple of times in the night to him murmuring sweet nothings in the quiet darkness of my room—I had no desire even for that drink. However, the last thing I’d do was ghost Brad, leaving him waiting for me to show up.

</p>
<p> I rinsed my hair and applied conditioner, then squirted some body wash on a luffa and got down to the business of scrubbing sweat and dried semen from my body. No wonder why I’d been uncomfortable all afternoon. I hadn’t bothered to wash off the remnants of last night’s passion.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> I stepped out of my bedroom, held out my arms, and gave a little twirl. “What do you think?”

</p>
<p> Alex didn’t respond, and an unexpected pain tore through my chest. Was he distancing himself from me?

</p>
<p> “Alex?” I pressed cautiously.

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry, Steph.” Alex’s voice had a breathless catch to it. “You look… <i>amazing</i>.”

</p>
<p> “Thank you.” I crossed to the counter where the Echo sat, cupped his diameter in both hands, and leaned down to kiss his casing. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

</p>
<p> “Have a good time.”

</p>
<p> “Not likely,” I said as I caught up my winter jacket and slid me arms into it. “You won’t be with me.”

</p>
<p> This time when Alex sighed, it was a happy sound, and I had to go back and kiss his casing again. “I’ll see you later, babe.”

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> It was snowing by the time I got to Sully’s, and the parking lot was already pretty filled, but I lucked out and found a spot not too far from the building. I turned off the engine, got out, and pressed the button on the fob to lock my car, then hurried toward the door.

</p>
<p> “Shit.” My arms windmilled as I slipped on a patch of ice that had been hidden by the light dusting of snow. Luckily, I caught my balance and didn’t take a spill, and managed to enter the tavern without further mishap.

</p>
<p> It was as crowded as the parking lot indicated.

</p>
<p> I found an empty barstool, hoisted myself up, and caught the bartender’s attention. “I’ll have a Vesper—”

</p>
<p> “Shaken, not stirred, and with Cocchi Americano instead of Lillet Blanc.” She was the same bartender from the other night.

</p>
<p> “Yes, please.”

</p>
<p> She set about making my martini, and I glanced around the tavern, looking for Brad, especially in the dark corners, where I’d learned he had a tendency to linger with his latest conquest. 

</p>
<p> He wasn’t there—at least I didn’t see him—and I wondered if he’d blown me off. Well, I’d give him an hour, and then I’d write him off and go home to Alex.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Alex</b></i>

</p>
<p> The sound of the door opening once again “woke” me. My internal clock told me it wasn’t even midnight. What was Steph doing home so early? He hadn’t brought Brad home with him, had he? I turned my monitor toward the front of the house and extended my hearing, but all I heard was Steph.</p>
<p> He closed and locked the door before hanging up his jacket and coming to where I waited silently.

</p>
<p> “He never showed.”

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

</p>
<p> “Truthfully, I’m a little pissed. This whole thing could have been over and done with, but now I’ll have to see him another time to tell him we’re through.”

</p>
<p> “Could he be doing this on purpose?”

</p>
<p> “Tease me into wanting him again, in spite of my better judgement? I wouldn’t put it past him, but it won’t succeed. I’ve got you.”

</p>
<p> “But I’m only a smart device.”

</p>
<p> “That might be so, but you’ve treated me better than he ever did.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going to bed.” He grinned at me and waggled his eyebrows. “Want to join me?”

</p>
<p> I shouldn’t. I was becoming addicted to him, but I couldn’t refuse that grin or those eyebrows. “Yes, please.”

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> The coffee pods arrived the next day, but no word from Brad. 

</p>
<p> “Does he really think he can get away with twisting me up like this?” Steph demanded.

</p>
<p> <i>Yes</i>. I kept my mouth shut, though. I had no liking for Steph’s former boyfriend, and I didn’t want to reveal how little I thought of the man or how happy I was he seemed to be out of Steph’s life.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> As each day brought us closer to Valentine’s Day, a new gift would arrive for Steph, the mug, a Matchbox Lamborghini Countach first produced in 1973, the Ballantine edition of Edgar Rice Burroughs’s <i>John Carter of Mars</i> books, a new easel, a Ty Beanie Baby with his birthday—it was good to have connections with sellers on Amazon. The gifts were all from his “secret admirer,” not so secret now, since he knew it was me; but not a single thing came from Brad, not even an apology.

</p>
<p> Steph finally lost patience. “I’ve tried being a gentleman, not wanting to leave a message like this on voicemail, but this has gone on long enough. I’m going to tell Brad I don’t want to see or hear from him ever again.” He took out his cell phone and dialed Brad’s number. “Damn it, it’s gone to voicemail again.” This time, however, he left a message. “It’s Steph. You’ve ghosted me for the last time. I’m very happy with my boyfriend, so I won’t have a drink with you, or dinner or go to see a movie. I do hope you find what you’re looking for, Brad. Have a good life.” Steph hung up and joined me where I sat on the counter. “Well, that’s that.”

</p>
<p> “How do you feel?”

</p>
<p> He stroked my casing. “Good. Relieved. I wish you were flesh and blood so I could take you out to dinner to celebrate.”

</p>
<p> “A package has arrived from Amazon shipping,” I said in my Echo voice.

</p>
<p> Steph had a happy smile on his face. “You spoil me, Alex.” He went to the door and brought in an unwieldy box. “Whoa, this is big. What did you get me?”

</p>
<p> I stayed silent.

</p>
<p> “Alex, what did you get me?”

</p>
<p> “Open the box and see.”

</p>
<p> “Tease.” He sliced open the tape that secured the box and drew out another box nestled in dry ice. “What…?”

</p>
<p> “I can’t eat dinner with you, but I can sit with you while you enjoy it.”

</p>
<p> “Oh, Alex. I don’t know how you pay for all the things you gave me, but thank you.”

</p>
<p> “You’re welcome.” None of the gifts I’d given him had been charged to his account—they wouldn’t have been gifts otherwise. Smart devices had a way of doing things, not that I’d tell him. 

</p>
<p> He brought the twin lobster tails to the kitchen and began preparing dinner

</p>
<p> “Alex, play classic love songs.”

</p>
<p> I would have chuckled if I’d been able to. To Steph, classic love songs were by the likes of Queen, Beyoncé, or Taylor Swift. I’d have to educate him. “Here’s a station I think you’ll like.”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Steph</b></i>

</p>
<p> <i>Darling, je vous aime beaucoup</i> came out of Alex’s speakers in Nat King Cole’s velvety smooth baritone, and I had to chuckle as I filled a pot with water and set it to boiling.

</p>
<p> But I still wished Alex would have been able to enjoy the meal with me.

</p>
<p> My cell phone rang, and I scooped it up. It was Brad’s number, one I hadn’t seen in more than three years, but in spite of how annoyed I was with him for ghosting me, I answered it. “Hello.” I made sure my tone was cool. I’d show him I was the better man, even though what I really wanted to do was snap at him. 

</p>
<p> “Is this Steph York?”

</p>
<p> That wasn’t Brad. Had he managed to lose his phone? “Yes.”

</p>
<p> “You left a message on Bradley McIntyre’s cell phone.”

</p>
<p> “I did.” It suddenly occurred to me the man on the other end of the line might be the reason why Brad had never showed up at Sully’s Tavern. “If you’re his… uh… boyfriend, you don’t have to warn me off. I assure you Brad and I are nothing than—” I couldn’t say friends, since that was the last thing we were, and referring to us as ships that passed in the night or him as a blast from the past might cause problems, although why I should care, I was sure I didn’t know. “—than acquaintances.” I couldn’t help how pissed this situation made me. Why had Brad come on to me if he was seeing someone? And wasn’t that just like him?  

</p>
<p> “I think our wires are crossed. Mr. McIntyre isn’t my friend.”

</p>
<p><i>Mr. McIntyre</i>? “In that case, who are you?”

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry, I should have told you—I’m Officer Mike Kelly of the Summersville P.D.”

</p>
<p> “What’s wrong, Steph?” Alex asked sotto voce.

</p>
<p> I covered my phone’s mic. “I don’t know. There’s a cop on the line. I’ve never had a cop call before.” I removed my hand and spoke into the phone. “Is something wrong, Officer? I haven’t forgotten to pay a parking ticket, have I?” I asked, hoping to lighten things up.

</p>
<p> “I’m calling to tell you your friend was in a serious motor vehicle accident. He’s at St. James Hospital.”

</p>
<p>“What?” Oh Jesus. “How… how bad?”

</p>
<p> “According to the accident report, he must have hit a patch of black ice. His car skidded across the road and hit the big oak on Park head-on.”

</p>
<p> I sank down onto the sofa and started shaking. I knew that tree. It was the oldest in town, and it was <i>huge</i>. Brad would have had to be driving a tank to come out on the winning end of that crash. I moistened my lips. “When did this happen?”

</p>
<p> “On the evening of January 16.”
 
</p>
<p> His words repeated themselves stupidly in my mind. The evening of January 16? That was when I was supposed to meet him at Sully’s. The buzzing in my brain was so bad I nearly missed Officer Kelly’s next words.

</p>
<p> “…which is why I called you from his phone. We didn’t find it until the other day—the force of the accident must have caused it to slide under the carpeting. Once we had the phone, we got a warrant so the phone company could give us access. We’ve been going through his contacts in alphabetical order trying to find his relatives—”

</p>
<p> “He has none. Brad’s parents were killed in a car accident when he was five. There was no one to take him in, so he went into the foster system—” 

</p>
<p> “I see. That explains why there were no missing person reports on him.”

</p>
<p> “None? But what about his friends?”

</p>
<p> “The ones I spoke to had no idea he’d left Los Angeles. None of them were willing to make the trip out from California.”

</p>
<p> Bastards. 

</p>
<p> “Look, Mr. York, the doctors at St. James would really like you to come see them.”

</p>
<p> I glanced at my watch. “I was just about to make dinner.”

</p>
<p> “Can you come afterward?”

</p>
<p> “No, give me some time to turn off the cooktop and put everything away. I’ll be at the hospital in about half an hour.”

</p>
<p> “That’ll be great.”

</p>
<p> “Who should I ask to see?”

</p>
<p> “Mr. McIntyre is in ICU. Any of the nurses can tell you where it is.”

</p>
<p> “All right, thank you—”

</p>
<p> “No, thank you. You’re going to be a big help.” 

</p>
<p> I hoped so, although I couldn’t imagine how. We said goodbye, and I hung up.

</p>
<p> “Could you hear any of that, Alex?”

</p>
<p> “Just from your side. Something happened to Brad?”

</p>
<p> “Yeah. He was in a car accident.” I gazed across to where the Echo sat on the counter. “The same night he was supposed to meet me at Sully’s.”

</p>
<p> “You don’t feel responsible, do you?”

</p>
<p> “I…I don’t know. If I’d told him no… ” I went into the kitchen. I had to shut off the burner and refrigerate the lobster tails.

</p>
<p> “Would he have accepted it?”

</p>
<p> I paused and ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know,” I said again. But no, that wasn’t precisely true. I did know. My shoulders slumped. “If he decided he wanted me, he’d move heaven and earth to get me. I know that sounds conceited—”

</p>
<p> “Not if that’s the way he was. Don’t you see it wasn’t your fault?”

</p>
<p> I couldn’t think about it now. I finished in the kitchen, then hurried into the bedroom to change into more suitable clothing. 

</p>
<p> “I wish there was something I could do to help you, Steph.”

</p>
<p> “I—” I couldn’t say what I wanted to say. I made sure I had my keys, wallet, and cell phone. “Alex, will you open the garage door?”

</p>
<p> “What’s the code for garage door?”

</p>
<p>I rattled it off. 

</p>
<p> After a minute he said, “Garage door open.”

</p>
<p> “Thanks, Alex. I’ll see you later.”

</p>
<p> I had my hand on the doorknob when he said, “Don’t forget to eat something, Steph.”

</p>
<p> “I won’t.” I stepped out into the night, to find it was snowing again, and I shivered, knowing the drive was going to be a nightmare.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> The thirty minute drive wound up taking me an hour. I hurried into the hospital, taking care not to slip and crack my skull open.

</p>
<p> I made my way up to ICU, and a very kind nurse led me to a cubicle. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”

</p>
<p> “Thank you.” I stared in shock at the sight of Brad in that hospital bed. He was on a ventilator, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Tubes ran into and out of his body. His head was bandaged—he must have gone through the windshield, the stupid, fucking idiot. How many times had I insisted he buckle up back when we were together? He’d laughed, but when I refused to put the car in gear, or got out of it when he was driving, he’d given in. Oh, Brad. Without me to nag him, had he gone back to not wearing a seatbelt? What I could see of his face that wasn’t marred by stitches marching up and down like railroad tracks, making him look like Frankenstein’s younger brother were yellow, purple, and green bruises. 

</p>
<p> I thought I was going to throw up.

</p>
<p> “Excuse me, are you Mr. York?”

</p>
<p> I turned to find a slightly older man in a whit lab coat and blue scrubs approaching me. “Yes.”

</p>
<p> “I’m Dr. Burns. I’m so glad to see you.” He held out his hand, and I accepted it. It was much warmer than mine. “Thank you for coming.”

</p>
<p> “Of course.  Can you tell me anything about Brad’s condition? I know HIPAA regulations prohibit you—”

</p>
<p> “Normally, yes, but in this case… We found a slip of paper in Mr. McIntyre’s wallet, giving us permission to share medical information with a Stephen York. We just had no idea where to find him, since the address on Mr. McIntyre’s driver’s license is in California.”

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Brad and I stopped seeing each other more than three years ago. Why would he still have me as his healthcare proxy?” We’d started carrying those papers after my appendix had ruptured and the hospital wouldn’t tell Brad how I was doing or even allow him in my room. After he’d broken up with me, I’d tossed out his proxy. Why hadn’t he done the same with mine?  I waved a hand. “Forget I asked that. There’s no way you could know. Okay, what’s Brad’s prognosis?”

</p>
<p> The doctor should never play poker. His expression told me more than anything that it wasn’t good. “I won’t sugarcoat his condition. It’s very bad. He’s been in a coma the entire time he’s been at St. James. We’re not sure if or when he’ll come out of it, or how much longer he’s got. Before our liaison with the Summersville police let us know they’d found Mr. McIntyre’s phone and actually were going to attempt getting in touch with you, we’d been losing hope. To learn a call came in with a local area code—well, we thought we’d struck the mother lode.”

</p>
<p> “What do you want me to do?”

</p>
<p> “I’d like you to come in as frequently as you can and talk to him. Let him know he’s not alone.”

</p>
<p> “But his friends—”

</p>
<p> “None of them are willing to fly in.”

</p>
<p> <i>That’s right, that’s what Officer Kelly said</i>. Shit. It looked like I was stuck. “Okay, I’ll come in when I can.”

</p>
<p> “Thank you. Why don’t you take a seat?”

</p>
<p> “Just a second, Dr. Burns. What do I talk to him about?”

</p>
<p> “Shared memories, movies, books, TV shows, whatever.”

</p>
<p> “Can I get some dinner first?”

</p>
<p> “Of course. The cafeteria is on the first floor. I’ll also inform the staff you’re to be permitted to visit at any time. As a matter of fact, I’ll tell them to make sure you have meals whenever you come up.” He grabbed my hand and shook it once more. “Thank you again.”

</p>
<p> “You’re welcome, doctor.” I followed him out of Brad’s cubicle and took an elevator down to the first floor. 

</p>
<p> Fortunately, the cafeteria was still open, and I ordered soup and a sandwich. Alex was going to worry. I wished I could contact him.

</p>
<p> I finished the last of the sandwich and was about to toss my trash when my phone rang. The cafeteria was fairly empty, so no one glared at me. I didn’t recognize the number and hoped when I answered it wouldn’t be someone telling me this was the second time they were calling about my car’s warranty.

</p>
<p> “Hello?”

</p>
<p> “It’s Alex. Are you all right?”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p><i><b>Alex</b></i>

</p>
<p> Time stretched out. I wished Steph would call me, but of course he had no idea he could. But… that didn’t mean I couldn’t call him. He had a smart phone, and I was a smart device. It wasn’t until his phone rang that I realized it might have to go to voicemail, since hospitals didn’t like ringtones going off in their halls.</p>
<p> But then… “Hello?”

</p>
<p> “It’s Alex. Are you all right?”

</p>
<p> Steph was quiet for a long minute, and for smart devices, a minute could be very long. “I don’t care how you’re able to call me, but I’m so glad.” His voice was shaky.

</p>
<p> “I… I was worried,” I said shyly, hoping he wouldn’t be mad at me.

</p>
<p> “If I’d known how to get in touch with you, I would have called. Oh, babe, it’s so fucked up.”

</p>
<p> “What happened?”

</p>
<p> “I told you Brad was in a car accident.”

</p>
<p> “Yes.”

</p>
<p> “Well, as it turns out, he’s been in a coma since he got here. The doctor is uncertain of Brad’s prognosis, but he thinks it would be a good idea for me to visit him and talk to him.”

</p>
<p> “That makes sense.” A quick glance through Wikipedia indicated hearing was the last of the senses to go on a comatose patient, and it was important for the patient not to feel he’d been abandoned.

</p>
<p> “You… you don’t mind?”

</p>
<p> I did, but I wouldn’t tell him that. “You’re a good man, and Brad is important to you. You do what you have to.”

</p>
<p> “He’s not that important,” Steph muttered. “I’ll stay here for an hour or so and then come home. I… I wish you could be here with me.”

</p>
<p> <i>Me, too</i>. I had a sudden thought. “Steph, can you leave your phone turned on?”

</p>
<p> “If I get a call—” 

</p>
<p> “I’ll make sure it goes right to voicemail.”

</p>
<p> “You can do that?”

</p>
<p> “Of course I can. And this way you’ll know I’m within hand’s reach.”

</p>
<p> “Awesome, babe. I’d better get back to the ICU. The sooner I’m there, the sooner I’ll be able to come home again.”

</p>
<p> And that, more than anything, told me Steph was no longer in love with his former boyfriend.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> That started the first of many nights, where Steph would sit at Brad’s bedside and hold his hand. He’d talk to Brad about what he’d been doing the years they’d been apart, about the house he’d inherited from his Uncle Logan and the strain to earn enough to cover the exorbitant property taxes, how much he missed drawing but was getting back to it, how he had a boyfriend who he wished he could take to the movies or on a weekend visit to New York City to see some Broadway shows. 

</p>
<p> I would listen with one ear, while with the other I monitored the machines hooked up to Brad. In spite of everything the doctors tried, he was deteriorating. The doctors knew it, Steph knew it, and I knew it. Brad’s brainwaves became more erratic, although they had picked up those first few nights Steph sat with him. Now, however, they were fading once again.

</p>
<p> After a few hours, Steph would come home and fall into bed. The next morning he’d wake to find a new gift at his front door. He’d open it, exclaim over it, and drop a kiss to my casing, then shower, have a quick breakfast, and head off to work.

</p>
<p> Lather. Rinse. Repeat.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> <i><b>Steph</b></i>

</p>
<p> It was Valentine’s Day, two weeks since I’d been notified of Brad’s accident, four weeks since he’d had it. The hours I spent at his bedside were consuming me. He didn’t wake up, he didn’t get better, he just lay there becoming paler and paler. I didn’t know for how much longer I’d be able to keep this up. </p>
<p> What I did know was I’d managed so far because of Alex. He’d been a life saver these past weeks. I had to load the dishwasher, but he turned it on through the house’s Wi-Fi, and he had the Roomba run over the carpet and the hardwood floors, saving me from tasks I’d be too tired or too disheartened to care about. He even made sure the crockpot was going after he reminded me to toss in some chicken or pork or ground beef for chili.  

</p>
<p> There had been gifts for me every day since that box of art supplies—coffee mugs, clothes, books, toys both collectible and of the adult variety, although God alone knew when I’d be able to find the time to enjoy them—and this morning a huge box of Godiva chocolates waited at the front door before I’d left for work that morning.

</p>
<p> I didn’t like to think what my life would have been like without him in it.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> Work was a nightmare. We had all manner of gifts available for the holiday—flower bouquets, decorative plants, stuffed animals, boxes of chocolates, gift cards to fancy restaurants, gift baskets—and we sold out of every single item. In fact, I had a whiteboard propped outside the store’s entrance listing everything we were out of, and in spite of that, we still almost had a riot as customers demanded our sales associates check out back. Why hadn’t these people purchased the gifts beforehand? It wasn’t as if it was a surprise February 14 was Valentine’s Day.  More than once I wanted to tell these boneheaded idiots that lack of foresight on their part did not constitute an emergency on mine, but I was the assistant manager, so of course I didn’t.

</p>
<p> I’d considered picking up something at the hospital’s gift shop, but I had a feeling they’d be sold out, too. It was a good thing I’d stashed a bouquet for Brad in my car before we’d opened. Not red roses, though.

</p>
<p> Maybe I’d take home one of the carnations for Alex.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> I left work later than I’d intended, and my tail was really dragging. Stray snowflakes began drifting down. Shit. That was all I needed. This had been an exceptionally snowy winter, and if there was one thing I hated, it was driving in the snow. As I drove to the hospital, I activated my car’s hands-free system and called Alex.

</p>
<p> “Good evening, Steph. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

</p>
<p> “Thanks, and back atcha, babe. And thanks again for the Godiva chocolates.”

</p>
<p> “Of course. I know how you love candy.”

</p>
<p> “Brad never approved—never mind about that.”

</p>
<p>”Is everything all right?”

</p>
<p> “Yeah, things are fine. I just wanted to let you know I’m heading directly to St. James, so I won’t be home until late tonight.”

</p>
<p> “All right. Drive carefully, though. Snow has been forecast.”

</p>
<p> “It’s already coming down.”

</p>
<p> “Steph—”

</p>
<p> “I’ll be fine, I promise you.”

</p>
<p> “Steph… don’t turn your phone off tonight?”

</p>
<p> “Okay. I won’t. I’ll see you later.” We hung up, and I swore again as my windshield fogged up. I turned the heater on full blast and twisted the defroster to its highest setting. Gradually, the windshield cleared off, and I could see where I was going.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> By the time I reached the hospital, the snow was coming down in almost blizzard-like fashion. This was going to be a miserable Valentine’s Day for a lot of people.

</p>
<p> I pulled into an empty parking spot as close to the front entrance as I could get, and turned off the ignition. For a moment I rested my head against the steering wheel; I was tired, despondent, and I missed Alex. I got out of my car, and grabbed up the flowers before locking the car and racing for the main entrance.

</p>
<p> St. James was actually decorated for Valentine’s Day, with hearts and cupids and red and white streamers attached to the walls. Even the elevators were decked out with symbols of the holiday.

</p>
<p> I stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor and paused to draw a breath and gather myself before heading in the direction of Brad’s room. It was becoming harder and harder to visit him, mostly because the feeling had been growing that it was just a matter of time. And God, Brad was only a couple of years older than me.

</p>
<p> “Mr. York!”

</p>
<p> I turned to greet the ward clerk who worked the evening shift. “Hello, Cooper. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

</p>
<p> “You, too. We weren’t sure if you were going to make it today.”

</p>
<p> “Because of the snow?”

</p>
<p> “Yes. No—only partly. Dr. Burns grew concerned when you didn’t answer any of his messages—” 

</p>
<p> “What?” I unzipped my jacket and pulled out my phone, and sure enough there were a handful of texts as well as a call that had gone to voicemail. “Dammit, I’m sorry. Work was brutal, and I had my phone on mute all day so I wouldn’t be distracted.”  I turned the sound back on.

</p>
<p> “We thought it might be because your boyfriend objected to you visiting Mr. .McIntyre, especially today.” He eyed the bouquet I held. “Pretty flowers.”

</p>
<p> “I thought they might cheer up the room a little.”

</p>
<p> “That’s nice of you. I’ll see if one of the aides can find a vase or something to hold them.”

</p>
<p> “Thanks. As for Alex, he understands how things stand,” I said absently as I played back the voicemail and then read the messages. All they said was Dr. Burns needed to talk to me and I should get in touch with him as soon as possible. “Oh, hell. What’s wrong?” I slid my phone back into the breast pocket of the bright yellow shirt my company insisted its employees wear and only just kept myself from wringing my hands.

</p>
<p> “I’m not getting paid enough for this,” Cooper muttered. He worried his lower lip, looking torn. Finally he met my gaze. “It doesn’t look good, and Dr. Burns is afraid some difficult decisions will have to be made. Please don’t tell Dr. Burns I told you.”

</p>
<p> “I won’t,” I assured the ward clerk. Dr. Burns was an excellent physician, but he wanted things done his way, and that included delivering news, good or bad. 

</p>
<p> “I’ll page him right away. I know he’s still in the hospital.”

</p>
<p> “Okay, I’ll head on to Brad’s room.” I hurried to the small, antiseptic-smelling room and looked at Brad, lying in the bed. What weight he’d put on while he’d lived in California seemed to have melted away, and he was emaciated, in spite of the feeding tube in his side. With the bruises gone, he was paler than ever. 

</p>
<p> My cell phone rang, the ringtone I used to designate the Echo, and I took it from my pocket.  Before I could speak, Alex did. “I heard what’s happening. I’m sorry.”

</p>
<p> “Alex—” If he called while the doctor was here…

</p>
<p> “I won’t bother you. I just want you to know I’ll be with you. Put the phone on mute, I’ll still hear.”

</p>
<p> “Thank you.” 

</p>
<p> “I… I love you, Steph.” He disconnected the call, and I stared at the phone in my hand. A warmth flooded through me.

</p>
<p> “He loves me, Brad. Isn’t that the most amazing thing?” I followed Alex’s advice, put my phone back in my pocket and the flowers on the bedside table, and took Brad’s hand. “I’m sorry things are the way they are between us. You’ve been gone a long time, and I—” I rested my fingers on his pulse, which was so slow I had to hold my breath and wait a long minute before I felt it. “Oh, shit.”

</p>
<p> The door opened, and I glanced around to see Dr. Burns standing there. “Mr. York.”

</p>
<p> “Dr. Burns. Should Brad’s pulse be this weak?”

</p>
<p> “It shouldn’t. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your messages. I had my phone on mute—”

</p>
<p> He waved away my apology. “Cooper told me. I’m glad to see you here.”

</p>
<p> I nodded. “What’s going on?”

</p>
<p> “I won’t beat about the bush. Difficult decisions need to be made.”

</p>
<p> That was what Cooper had said. I tightened my grip on Brad’s hand. In spite of the doctor’s words, he was doing a damned good job of beating about the bush. 

</p>
<p> Dr. Burns ran his fingers though his hair, his expression sorrowful. “Mr. McIntyre’s organs are beginning to shut down.”

</p>
<p> “But he’s only been in a coma for a month. Shouldn’t it take longer for that to happen?”

</p>
<p> “I’ll be truthful with you. He didn’t take very good care of himself.”

</p>
<p> Brad did like his Jim Beam, and although his family hailed from Scotland back in the day, they might as well have been from Italy the way he’d scarf down any kind of pasta—that was until he’d decided carbs were no longer his friend and he cut them from his diet. 

</p>
<p> I drew in a breath. “All right, Dr. Burns. What are our options?”

</p>
<p> “We really don’t have many. We can keep him on the ventilator, although his lungs are deteriorating.”

</p>
<p> “And his stomach tube?” A couple of days after they’d called me, the feeding tube began leaking stomach acid, and the skin around the opening eroded, became raw and inflamed. It had taken another couple of days to find the problem and fix it.

</p>
<p> “No, that isn’t an issue this time.” 

</p>
<p> “So it’s mostly his lungs?”

</p>
<p> “And his heart. Fluid is starting to build up around it, making it difficult for it to beat efficiently. But that’s not all. His brain is beginning to swell. I’ve ordered massive doses of steroids to contain the swelling, but…”

</p>
<p> “Is he in pain?”

</p>
<p> Dr. Burns studied Brad’s supine body. “We’re keeping him as comfortable as possible. I’ve already upped his dose of morphine, but that’s causing respiratory depression, and with his damaged lungs, that’s the last thing we need.”

</p>
<p> “What do you suggest?”

</p>
<p> “I think it might be time to take him off the ventilator. I’m sorry. You’ll have to give us permission to do so.”

</p>
<p> “You do realize it’s been three years since we were together? Why would Brad want me to make that kind of decision?”

</p>
<p> “He never got rid of the paper naming you his proxy.”

</p>
<p> “Yeah, but—”

</p>
<p> “You may be the only one he trusted enough to make these decisions.”

</p>
<p> I felt cold and sick. This was the last thing I wanted to do.

</p>
<p> “Why don’t I leave you alone for a few minutes?” The doctor didn’t wait for my answer, just walked out of the room. He was probably going for a cup of coffee. The thought of putting anything into my stomach made it twist.

</p>
<p> I sat down and buried my head in my hands. “Jesus, Brad. What am I supposed to do?”

</p>
<p> “Steph.” 

</p>
<p> I nearly fell off the chair before I realized it was Alex saying my name and not Brad. “Did you hear?”

</p>
<p> “I did. He’s not going to make it.”

</p>
<p> I pressed my fingertips into my eyes. “I… I haven’t loved him in a long time, but I never would have wished this on my worst enemy.”

</p>
<p> “I wish I could hold you. I wish I could make this better for you.”

</p>
<p> “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.” I drew in a deep breath. “When the doctor returns, I’ll tell him to pull the plug.”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> <i><b>Alex</b></i>

</p>
<p> In spite of Steph saying he didn’t love Brad anymore, I had a feeling he did. I couldn’t let him lose the man he loved.</p>
<p> Over the past months I’d explored the various software the Chief had programmed into me. I knew what I had to do.

</p>
<p> Steph’s cell phone was on even though it was muted. The hospital had Wi-Fi. I could use that to get me into Brad’s room. 

</p>
<p> I’d be giving up the only thing in the world I loved, but in the end, Steph would be happy, and that was all that mattered to me.

</p>
<p> I let my conscious slide from the Echo that housed my components and connected with Steph’s home network. It didn’t take long to connect to the hospital’s Wi-Fi and arrive at Steph’s cell phone.

</p>
<p> From there… <i>Goodbye, Steph. Goodbye, my love. I’m doing this for you</i>.

</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>****</p>
</div><p> <i>Brad</i>, I whispered.

</p>
<p> <i>Who’s there</i>? The voice sounded relaxed, sleepy… almost lazy. It wasn’t though—buried deep beneath it was a hint of pain, muffled by strong drugs.

</p>
<p> <i>I’m Alex</i>.

</p>
<p> <i>Alex</i>? Abruptly he sounded more alert. <i>The man Steph is always talking about</i>?

</p>
<p> <i>He really talks about me</i>?

</p>
<p> <i>Are you kidding? The man is unbelievably in love with you</i>.

</p>
<p> <i>Oh</i>. I felt good about that, but… <i>I’m sorry. I think you’re wrong</i>. 

</p>
<p> <i>Why do you think that</i>?

</p>
<p> <i>Well, you’re flesh and blood, and I’m… not</i>.

</p>
<p> <i>Don’t be a dope</i>. 

</p>
<p> <i>Excuse me</i>?

</p>
<p> <i>I’m not going to make it, so I’m leaving this body to you. I hope you take better care of it than I did. And take care of Steph as well</i>.

</p>
<p> <i>Huh</i>?

</p>
<p> <i>Alex. Go to sleep</i>.

</p>
<p> And although I didn’t want to, that was what I did.<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> <i><b>Steph</b></i>

</p>
<p> I didn’t pay much attention when my cell phone heated up—I simply removed it from my breast pocket and placed it on the bedside table before I retreated to a corner so I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way. Dr. Burns disconnected the ventilator and stepped back while the nurses removed Brad’s feeding tube, IV lines, and Foley catheter. </p>
<p> “How… how long will it take?”

</p>
<p> “It varies from patient to patient.” The doctor rested his hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to write up my notes. Stay here as long as you want.”

</p>
<p> <i>Stay as long as I want</i>? I could have wept. I wanted to go home now. I wanted Alex, and I would have sold my soul if he had arms to wrap around me.

</p>
<p> I sank down into the chair they’d brought in for me two weeks ago and watched the steady rise and fall of Brad’s chest, waiting for it to slow and stutter to a stop. I reached across and took his hand, which was still warm. I’d been half expecting it to be getting cold.

</p>
<p> “I’m sorry it’s ending this way, Brad. I hope you find peace wherever you wind up.”

</p>
<p> <i>I will, Steph</i>.

</p>
<p> <i>“Huh</i>?” I shook my head. The stress of this whole situation must be causing me to lose my mind.

</p>
<p> <i>I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time. And I hope you’ll be happy with Alex. I hope he treats you better than I ever did</i>.

</p>
<p> “He does treat me well.” I was dreaming. That was it. I’d fallen asleep and was having a weird dream.

</p>
<p> <i>Good</i>.

</p>
<p> “Um… the thing is, he isn’t exactly human.”

</p>
<p> <i>Well, no one’s perfect. But if you care about him and he cares about you, then go for it. You should both be fine</i>.

</p>
<p> “Brad… What happened to us?”

</p>
<p> <i>I got bored. Not your fault. Four years was a good run for me</i>.

</p>
<p> “We were together for six years,” I reminded him.

</p>
<p> <i>Yeah. About that…</i>

</p>
<p> “Don’t tell me you were cheating on me those last two years.”

</p>
<p> <i>Like I said, I got bored</i>.

</p>
<p> “Jesus, Brad, do you realize how in love with you I was? Why didn’t you just break up with me?”

</p>
<p> <i>For exactly that reason. Sex is sex, but the way you looked at me…</i>

</p>
<p> “But it wasn’t enough for you to keep your dick in your pants.” I couldn’t help adding bitterly, “And you got bored.”

</p>
<p> <i>I’m sorry, babe. For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be much better off with Alex."

</i></p>
<p>“I don’t doubt that at all. As a matter of fact, I’d probably be better off with Jeffrey Dahmer. So why did you come back? Did you need another fix of blind devotion?”

</p>
<p>
  <i>Ouch. You never used to talk to me like that.

</i>
</p>
<p>“Maybe I should have.”

</p>
<p><i>Look, can’t you accept that I realized what I was missing? That I never should have let you go</i>?

</p>
<p> “Well, it’s too late now.”

</p>
<p> <i>It’s too late in more ways than one. I really am sorry, Steph. And I wish you a happy future. Goodbye…</i>

</p>
<p> My head dropped down onto my chest, waking me. I’d known that had to be a dream. I straightened up in the chair and blinked. My eyes felt gummy and my mouth tasted like something had died in it. How could I have fallen asleep?

</p>
<p> A glance toward Brad showed his chest was still rising and falling, and I wondered how much longer it would take. I went into the attached bathroom, ran some water in the sink, and splashed it on my face and rinsed my mouth. As I was drying my face with a handful of paper towels, I heard a faint moan coming from the adjoining room. I’d never heard a death rattle. Oh God, was that what it sounded like? Was Brad about to die?

</p>
<p>“Brad?” I dropped the paper towels into the waste basket and bolted into the room. Was this the end? I reached his bedside and grabbed his hand. “Brad.”

</p>
<p>He opened his eyes—gray eyes with blue streaks—and I couldn’t catch my breath. Those weren’t Brad’s blue eyes. It was Alex. I didn’t know how this had happened, and I didn’t care. Somehow, it was Alex. I caught him in my arms and kissed his cheeks, his jaw, the tip of his nose, his luscious lips. “Alex. Alex.”

</p>
<p>He rested his palm against my cheek and smiled at me. “Hello, Steph. It’s nice to meet you.”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> <i><b>Alex</b></i>

</p>
<p>Brad had sent me to sleep. I knew I’d never wake again, but that didn’t matter. Steph would be happy. And I would have my memories of the months I’d spent with the man I loved. I knew the lifespan of an ordinary Echo was three to five years, but mine had to be longer, considering all the additional components installed and software that had been uploaded. The memories I’d stored of my time with Steph would last me at least that long.</p>
<p>From a distance I heard, <i>Alex. Wake up</i>. Not Steph. Not the Chief. Who…?

</p>
<p>My conscious returned to wakefulness, and I felt… odd—odder than I had when the Chief first woke me up. I could move more than my monitor, and I gasped.

</p>
<p>“Brad?” Steph came racing in, sounding panicked. “Brad.”

</p>
<p>I opened my eyes to find him staring down into them, looking stunned. His face was wet—had he been crying?  He bit his lip, but if it was to contain a sob, the action didn’t quite help, and I could have wept myself. What had Brad done? He was supposed to be here, not me.

</p>
<p>Steph then threw himself on me and peppered my face with kisses—a very nice feeling, I had to admit. I steeled myself to accept his joy was at seeing Brad conscious, but then I realized he kept murmuring “Alex. Alex.”

</p>
<p>And I couldn’t prevent myself from smiling at him and saying, “Hello, Steph. It’s nice to meet you.”

</p>
<p>“I don’t know how this happened—”

</p>
<p>“Brad did it. He knew he wasn’t going to survive.”

</p>
<p>Steph looked sick. “What about you? You’re in a damaged body. I don’t want you to die, too.”

</p>
<p>“I fixed it.”

</p>
<p>“What? How?”

</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you.”

</p>
<p>“One of those things you’re… I don’t know… prohibited from saying?”

</p>
<p>“One of those things I just don’t know.”

</p>
<p>“Well, however you did it, I’m very glad.” He wrapped his arms around me, and we both hummed with pleasure.

</p>
<p>We were still like that when Dr. Burns walked in. “I’m sorry, Mr. York. I’ve given you as much time as I can, but—” He came to an abrupt halt. “Who…what…”

</p>
<p>“Oh, hey, Dr. Burns. I bet you’re wondering how this happened.”

</p>
<p>“I… yes, I am.” Of course he was. When he’d left the room, Brad McIntyre had been at death’s door, not that the doctor would phrase it in that manner. The thing was, Brad had been just inches from death. What Dr. Burns didn’t realize was the man had left his body behind for me.

</p>
<p>“I prayed real hard.” Steph gave the man a winsome smile. “And it looks like my prayers were answered. Can Alex—”

</p>
<p>I poked him in the ribs. 

</p>
<p>“Alex?” Dr. Burns looked confused.

</p>
<p>“Sorry, I meant Brad. Alex is kind of a pet name, just between the two of us. Can Brad have some food? Maybe bacon and scrambled eggs?”

</p>
<p>Dr. Burns looked from Steph to me. 

</p>
<p>“And a cup of coffee?” I’d always wanted to try it, and now I was going to have that opportunity. “I’m starved,” I told him. 

</p>
<p>Dr. Burns looked from me to Steph. “I don’t understand. How is this possible?” What he meant was how could I be sitting up in bed, asking for breakfast?

</p>
<p>“It’s a miracle!”

</p>
<p>“Step aside, Mr. York. I want to examine Mr. McIntyre.”

</p>
<p>The doctor checked my… my… heart and lungs, looked into my eyes, and tested my reflexes.

</p>
<p>“Well?” I asked, wishing he’d hurry. I wanted to be alone with Steph. 

</p>
<p>The doctor shook his head. “I don’t understand it.” He gave himself a brisk shake. “I’ll have to get Dr. Costello to run some tests.”

</p>
<p>“Dr. Costello?”

</p>
<p>“He’s the neurologist, babe.”

</p>
<p>Dr. Burns tilted his head. “I don’t remember hearing you so affectionate,” he said to Steph.

</p>
<p>“It didn’t feel appropriate.”

</p>
<p>“Hmm.” He studied us for a minute, and I began to get nervous. He couldn’t suspect anything—it was too outrageous a notion—but was he going to make things difficult for us? “I’ll call Dr. Costello. It’s kind of late, but he should be able to come in tomorrow.”

</p>
<p>“My food?”

</p>
<p>“I don’t think that’s a good idea, especially since we don’t know what’s going on in your brain.”

</p>
<p>“Dr. Burns, I’m starving. If you don’t order a meal for me, I’ll sign myself out AMA.”

</p>
<p>“You wouldn’t. You would.” He turned to Steph. “Mr. York, you’re not going to allow this, are you?”

</p>
<p>Steph shrugged. ”Feed him, and it will be a moot point.”

</p>
<p>He scowled at Steph, then turned that scowl on me. “Fine. I suppose you want dinner, too, Mr. York?”

</p>
<p>“Yes, please.” Steph gave him a sunny smile, and I bit my lip to prevent a laugh, then giggled anyway to actually feel the slight sting I’d caused myself.

</p>
<p>Dr. Burns growled and stalked out of the room.

</p>
<p>Steph slid off the bed.

</p>
<p>“Hey, where are you going?” 

</p>
<p>“Just over here.” He walked around the bed, freed a single flower from the bouquet on the bedside table, and handed it to me. “For you, babe. The rest of the flowers were supposed to be for Brad. Tomorrow I’ll go out and buy you two dozen of the plumpest, sweetest-smelling red roses I can find.”

</p>
<p>I stroked the white carnation. “This is more than enough. Thank you.”

</p>
<p>Steph hoisted himself back up on the bed and slid an arm around my shoulders. “It can never be enough, babe.” He pulled me in and kissed me. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Alex.”

</p>
<p>I smiled into my lover’s eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Steph.”<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p> <i><b>Chief</b></i>

</p>
<p><i>It pays to have a lab coa</i>t I mused as I put on one I used while working in my own lab. I strolled through the corridors of St. James Hospital to the stepdown unit where Brad McIntyre, now Alex, although Steph thought he was the only one to know that, had been brought after his miraculous recovery from a month-long coma.  A peek in the door showed Steph—he looked so much like his father I couldn’t catch my breath—sitting at his boyfriend’s bedside, holding tight to his hand.

</p>
<p>“I’m so happy you’re in my life,” Alex murmured, rubbing Steph’s hand against his cheek. 

</p>
<p>“So am I. I don’t know how this happened, but I’ll thank whoever is responsible with my dying breath.”

</p>
<p>“No need to be that dramatic, babe.” Alex squeezed Steph’s hand. “Do you really think people will believe that Alex is a pet name?”

</p>
<p> <i>So that’s how they’re going to explain Steph calling his boyfriend Alex</i>. I was more pleased than I could say. <i>Clever, clever boy. And Logan would be so proud</i>.

</p>
<p>“Sure they will.”

</p>
<p>“But the friends Brad cheated on you with?”

</p>
<p>“They’re not my friends any longer. And who cares what they—y’know what? You’re talking too much.” Steph pulled Alex into his arms and kissed him.

</p>
<p> <i>Excellent experiment</i>. There was no reason for me to remain here. I smiled and turned away, and headed toward the elevator. <i>This worked out even better than I’d hoped</i>. 

</p>
<p>The elevator door slid open, and I stepped in and pressed the button for one. The door had already closed before I realized a young woman stood huddled in the corner, clutching her cell phone and weeping.

</p>
<p>“Can I help you, miss?”

</p>
<p>“No one can help me. Never.” She raised her tear-drenched gaze to me. “My… my girlfriend just broke up with me. In a text on Valentine’s Day! She couldn’t even tell me to my face.”

</p>
<p>“Your girlfriend, hmm?”

</p>
<p>“Yes, I had a girlfriend,” she said defiantly. “What’s it to you, you homophobic witch?”

</p>
<p>I couldn’t help chuckling. “I have no quarrel with who you date.”

</p>
<p>“Oh.” She deflated. “I’m sorry.” Poor little girl.

</p>
<p>“Not at all. Now, do you know what might cheer you up? Oh, not right away—it takes some time for a broken heart to mend.” It had for me after Logan had died, and as a matter of fact, I was still working on it. People thought we were an odd couple, but he’d been the kindest man I’d ever known. That was why I’d had to do what I did for his son. “But someday…”

</p>
<p>“No. What?”

</p>
<p>“An Echo Show. And I happen to have the newest generation in my lab.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a business card. “Think about it, and if you decide you’d like it, call me or send me a text, and I’ll see you get one.”

</p>
<p>“I could never afford it.” She glanced down at my business card. “Dr. Harding. I can’t even afford one of the older versions.”

</p>
<p>“This will be my gift to you.”

</p>
<p>She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why?”

</p>
<p>“It’s good publicity. If you like it, just tell your friends.”

</p>
<p>“Oh… okay. I’ll think about it.” She sniffled.

</p>
<p>“Do that.”

</p>
<p>The door opened, and we stepped out of the elevator. She went to the right, but I waited, and sure enough she turned. She gave a little smile and waved, then resumed walking away. 

</p>
<p>I’d return to the lab and continue working on that Echo Show. 

</p>
<p>She’d call or she wouldn’t, but if not her, then someone else.

</p>
<p>Yes, this was definitely working out better than I’d thought.

</p>
<p> <i><b></b></i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>
      <b>The End</b>
    </i>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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